JOHN   BULL'S   OTHER   ISLAND 
AND   MAJOR   BARBARA 


JOHN  BULL'S  OTHER  ISLAND 
AND  MAJOR  BARBARA  •  BY 
BERNARD    SHAW 


BRENTANO'S  •  NEW  YORK 
MCMVni 


Copyright,  1907,  hy  G.  Bernard  Shaw 


i:£NRY  MOSSE  STEPHEK* 


Pebsswobk  bt 
Teb  Univbbsitt  Pees3,  Cambridqb,  U.  8.  A. 


•J 

PREFACE   FOR  POLITICIANS 

John  Bull's  Other  Island  was  written  in  1904  at  the 
request  of  Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats,  as  a  patriotic  con- 
tribution to  the  repertory  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre. 
Like  most  people  who  have  asked  me  to  write  plays,  ISIr. 
Yeats  got  rather  more  than  he  bargained  for.  The  play 
was  at  that  time  beyond  the  resources  of  the  new  Abbey 
Theatre,  which  the  Irish  enterprise  owed  to  the  public 
spirit  of  Miss  A.  E.  F.  Horniman  (an  Englishwoman, 
of  course),  who,  twelve  years  ago,  played  an  irqportant 
part  in  the  history  of  the  modern  English  stage  as  well 
as  in  my  own  personal  destiny  by  providing  the  neces- 
sary capital  for  that  memorable  season  at  the  Avenue 
Theatre  which  forced  my  Arms  and  The  Man  and  Mr. 
Yeats's  Land  of  Heart's  Desire  on  the  recalcitrant  Lon- 
don playgoer,  and  gave  a  third  Irish  playwright.  Dr. 
John  Todhunter,  an  opportunity  which  the  commercial 
theatres  could  not  have  afforded  him. 

There  was  another  reason  for  changing  the  destina- 
tion of  John  Bull's  Other  Island.  It  was  uncongenial 
to  the  whole  spirit  of  the  neo-Gaelic  movement,  which 
is  bent  on  creating  a  new  Ireland  after  its  own  ideal, 
whereas  my  play  is  a  very  uncompromising  presentment 
of  the  real  old  Ireland.  The  neit  thing  that  happened 
was  the  production  of  the  play  in  London  at  the  Court 
Theatre  by  Messrs.  Vedrenne  and  Barker,  and  its  im- 
mediate and  enormous  popularity  with  delighted  and 
flattered  English  audiences.  This  constituted  it  a  suc- 
cessful commercial  play,  and  made  it  imnecessary  to 
resort  to  the  special  machinery  or  tax  the  special  re- 
sources of  the  Irish  Literary  Theatre  for  its  production. 


13708 


vi  John  Bull's  Other  Island 


How  Tom   Broadbent  Took   It. 

Now  I  have  a  good  deal  more  to  say  about  the  rela- 
tions between  the  Irish  and  the  English  than  will  be 
found  in  my  play.  Writing  the  play  for  an  Irish  audi- 
ence, I  thought  it  would  be  good  for  them  to  be  shewn 
very  clearly  that  the  loudest  laugh  they  could  raise  at 
the  expense  of  the  absurdest  Englishman  was  not  really 
a  laugh  on  their  side;  that  he  would  succeed  where  they 
would  fail;  that  he  could  inspire  strong  affection  and 
loyalty  in  an  Irishman  who  knew  the  world  and  was 
moved  only  to  dislike,  mistrust,  irajDatience  and  even 
exasperation  by  his  own  countrymen;  that  his  power  of 
taking  himself  seriously,  and  his  insensibility  to  any- 
thing funny  in  danger  and  destruction,  was  the  first 
condition  of  economy  and  concentration  of  force,  sus- 
tained purpose,  and  rational  conduct.  But  the  need  for 
this  lesson  in  Ireland  is  the  measure  of  its  demoralizing 
superfluousness  in  England.  English  audiences  very 
naturall}'  swallowed  it  eagerly  and  smacked  their  lips 
over  it,  laughing  all  the  more  heartily  because  they  felt 
that  they  were  taking  a  caricature  of  tliemselves  with 
the  most  tolerant  and  largeminded  goodhumor.  They 
were  perfectly  willing  to  allow  me  to  represent  Tom 
Broadbent  as  infatuated  in  politics,  hypnotized  by  his 
newspaper-leader-writers  and  parliamentary  orators  into 
an  utter  paralysis  of  his  common  sense,  without  moral 
delicacy  or  social  tact,  provided  I  made  him  cheerful, 
robust,  goodnatured,  free  from  envy,  and  above  all,  a 
successful  muddler-through  in  business  and  love.  Not 
only  did  no  English  critic  allow  that  the  success  in  busi- 
ness of  Messrs.  English  Broadbent  and  Irish  Doyle 
might  possibly  have  been  due  to  some  extent  to  Doyle, 
but  one  writer  actually  dwelt  with  much  feeling  on  the 
pathos  of  Doyle's  failure  as  an  engineer  (a  circumstance 
not  mentioned  nor  suggested  in  my  play)   in  contrast 


Preface  for  Politicians  vii 

with  Broadbent's  solid  success.  No  doubt,  when  the  play- 
is  performed  in  Ireland,  the  Dublin  critics  will  regard 
it  as  self-evident  that  without  Doyle  Broadbent  would 
have  become  bankrupt  in  six  months.  I  should  say, 
myself,  that  the  combination  was  probably  much  more 
effective  than  either  of  the  partners  would  have  been 
alone.  I  am  persuaded  further — without  pretending  to 
know  more  about  it  than  anyone  else — that  Broadbent's 
special  contribution  was  simply  the  strength,  self-satis- 
faction, social  confidence  and  cheerful  bumptiousness 
that  money,  comfort,  and  good  feeding  bring  to  all 
healthy  people;  and  that  Doyle's  special  contribution 
was  the  freedom  from  illusion,  the  power  of  facing 
facts,  the  nervous  industry,  the  sharpened  wits,  the  sen- 
sitive pride  of  the  imaginative  man  who  has  fought  his 
way  up  through  social  persecution  and  poverty.  I  do 
not  say  that  the  confidence  of  the  Englishman  in  Broad- 
bent  is  not  for  the  moment  justified.  The  virtues  of 
the  English  soil  are  not  less  real  because  they  consist 
of  coal  and  iron,  not  of  metaphysical  sources  of  charac- 
ter. The  virtues  of  Broadbent  are  not  less  real  because 
they  are  the  virtues  of  the  money  that  coal  and  iron 
has  produced.  But  as  the  mineral  virtues  are  being  dis- 
covered and  developed  in  other  soils,  their  derivative 
virtues  are  appearing  so  rapidly  in  other  nations  that 
Broadbent's  relative  advantage  is  vanishing.  In  truth 
I  am  afraid  (the  misgiving  is  natural  to  a  by-this-time 
slightly  elderly  playwright)  that  Broadbent  is  out  of 
date.  The  successful  Englishman  of  today,  when  he 
is  not  a  transplanted  Scotchman  or  Irishman,  often  turns 
out  on  investigation  to  be,  if  not  an  American,  an  Italian, 
or  a  Jew,  at  least  to  be  depending  on  the  brains,  the 
nervous  energy,  and  the  freedom  from  romantic  illusions 
(often  called  cynicism)  of  such  foreigners  for  the  man- 
agement of  his  sources  of  income.  At  all  events  I  am 
persuaded  that  a  modern  nation  that  is  satisfied  with 
Broadbent  is  in  a  dream.    Much  as  I  like  him,  I  object 


viii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

to  be  governed  by  him,  or  entangled  in  his  political 
destiny.  I  therefore  propose  to  give  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind  here,  as  an  Irishman,  full  of  an  instinctive  pity 
for  those  of  my  fellow-creatures  who  are  only  English. 

What  Is  an   Irishman? 

When  I  say  that  I  am  an  Irishman  I  mean  that  I  was 
born  in  Ireland,  and  that  my  native  language  is  the 
English  of  Swift  and  not  the  unspeakable  jargon  of  the 
mid-XIX.  century  London  newspapers.  My  extraction 
is  the  extraction  of  most  Englishmen:  that  is,  I  have  no 
trace  in  me  of  the  commercially  imported  North  Spanish 
strain  which  passes  for  aboriginal  Irish:  I  am  a  genuine 
typical  Irishman  of  the  Danish,  Norman,  Cromwellian, 
and  (of  course)  Scotch  invasions,  I  am  violently  and 
arrogantly  Protestant  by  family  tradition;  but  let  no 
English  Government  therefore  count  on  my  allegiance: 
I  am  English  enough  to  be  an  inveterate  Republican  and 
Home  Ruler.  It  is  true  that  one  of  my  grandfathers 
was  an  Orangeman;  but  then  his  sister  was  an  abbess; 
and  his  uncle,  I  am  proud  to  say,  was  hanged  as  a  rebel. 
"When  I  look  round  me  on  the  hybrid  cosmopolitans, 
slum  poisoned  or  square  pampered,  who  call  themselves 
Englishmen  today,  and  see  them  bullied  by  the  Irish 
Protestant  garrison  as  no  Bengalee  now  lets  himself  be 
bullied  by  an  Englishman;  when  I  see  the  Irishman 
everywhere  standing  clearheaded,  sane,  hardily  callous 
to  the  boyish  sentimentalities,  susceptibilities,  and  credu- 
lities that  make  the  Englishman  the  dupe  of  every  char- 
latan and  the  idolater  of  every  numskull,  I  perceive  that 
Ireland  is  the  only  spot  on  earth  which  still  produces 
the  ideal  Englishman  of  history.  Blackguard,  bully, 
drunkard,  liar,  foul-mouth,  flatterer,  beggar,  backbiter, 
venal  functionary,  corrupt  judge,  envious  friend,  vin- 
dictive opponent,  imparalleled  political  traitor:  all  these 
your  Irishman  may  easily  be,  just  as  he  may  be  a  gen- 


Preface  for  Politicians  ix 

tleman  (a  species  extinct  in  England^  and  nobody  a 
penny  the  worse)  ;  but  he  is  never  quite  the  hysterical, 
nonsense-crammed,  fact-proof,  truth-terrified,  unbal- 
lasted sport  of  all  the  bogey  panics  and  all  the  silly 
enthusiasms  that  now  calls  itself  "  God's  Englishman." 
England  cannot  do  without  its  Irish  and  its  Scots  today, 
because  it  cannot  do  without  at  least  a  little  sanity. 

The   Protestant   Garrison. 

The  more  Protestant  an  Irishman  is — the  more  Eng- 
lish he  is,  if  it  flatters  you  to  have  it  put  that  way,  the 
more  intolerable  he  finds  it  to  be  ruled  by  English  in- 
stead of  Irish  folly.  A  "  loyal  "  Irishman  is  an  abhor- 
rent phenomenon,  because  it  is  an  unnatural  one.  No 
doubt  English  rule  is  vigorously  exploited  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  property,  power,  and  promotion  of  the  Irish 
classes  as  against  the  Irish  masses.  Our  delicacy  is 
part  of  a  keen  sense  of  reality  which  makes  us  a  very 
practical,  and  even,  on  occasion,  a  very  coarse  people. 
The  Irish  soldier  takes  the  King's  shilling  and  drinks 
the  King's  health;  and  the  Irish  squire  takes  the  title 
deeds  of  the  English  settlement  and  rises  uncovered 
to  the  strains  of  the  English  national  anthem.  But  do 
not  mistake  this  cupboard  loyalty  for  anything  deeper. 
It  gains  a  broad  base  from  the  normal  attachment  of 
every  reasonable  man  to  the  established  government  as 
long  as  it  is  bearable;  for  we  all,  after  a  certain  age, 
prefer  peace  to  revolutioij  and  order  to  chaos,  other 
things  being  equal.  Such  considerations  produce  loyal 
Irishmen  as  they  produce  loyal  Poles  and  Fins,  loyal 
Hindoos,  loyal  Filipinos,  and  faithful  slaves.  But  there 
is  nothing  more  in  it  than  that.  If  there  is  an  entire 
lack  of  gall  in  the  feeling  of  the  Irish  gentry  towards 
the  English,  it  is  because  the  Englishman  is  always 
gaping  admiringly  at  the  Irishman  as  at  some  clever 
child  prodigy.     He  overrates  him  with  a  generosity  born 


X  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

of  a  traditional  conviction  of  his  own  superiority  in  the 
deeper  aspects  of  human  character.  As  the  Irish  gentle- 
man, tracing  his  pedigree  to  the  conquest  or  one  of  the 
invasions,  is  equally  convinced  that  if  this  superiority 
really  exists,  he  is  the  genuine  true  blue  heir  to  it,  and 
as  he  is  easily  able  to  hold  his  own  in  all  the  superficial 
social  accomplishments,  he  finds  English  society  agree- 
able, and  English  houses  very  comfortable,  Irish  estab- 
lishments being  generally  straitened  by  an  attempt  to 
keep  a  park  and  a  stable  on  an  income  which  would  not 
justify  an  Englishman  in  venturing  upon  a  wholly  de- 
tached villa. 

Our  Temperaments  Contrasted. 

But  however  pleasant  the  relations  between  the 
Protestant  garrison  and  the  English  gentry  may  be, 
they  are  always  essentially  of  the  nature  of  an  entente 
cordiale  between  foreigners.  Personally  I  like  English- 
men much  better  than  Irishmen  (no  doubt  because  they 
make  more  of  me)  just  as  many  Englishmen  like  French- 
men better  than  Englishmen,  and  never  go  on  board  a 
Peninsular  and  Oriental  steamer  when  one  of  the  ships 
of  the  jNIessageries  JNIaritimes  is  available.  But  I  never 
think  of  an  Englishman  as  my  countryman.  I  should 
as  soon  think  of  applying  that  term  to  a  German.  And 
the  Englishman  has  the  same  feeling.  When  a  French- 
man fails  to  make  the  distinction,  we  both  feel  a  certain 
disparagement  involved  in  the  misapprehension.  Mac- 
aulay,  seeing  that  the  Irish  had  in  Swift  an  author 
worth  stealing,  tried  to  annex  him  by  contending  that 
he  must  be  classed  as  an  Englishman  because  he  was 
not  an  aboriginal  Celt.  He  might  as  well  have  refused 
the  name  of  Briton  to  Addison  because  he  did  not  stain 
himself  blue  and  attach  scythes  to  the  poles  of  his  sedan 
chair.  In  spite  of  all  such  trifling  with  facts,  the  actual 
distinction  between  the  idolatrous  Englishman  and  the 


Preface  for  Politicians  xi 

fact-facing  Irishman,  of  the  same  extraction  though  they 
be,  remains  to  explode  those  two  hollowest  of  fictions, 
the  Irish  and  English  "  races."  There  is  no  Irish  race 
any  more  than  there  is  an  English  race  or  a  Yankee  race. 
There  is  an  Irish  climate,  which  will  stamp  an  immigrant 
more  deeply  and  durably  in  two  years,  apparently,  than 
the  English  climate  will  in  two  hundred.  It  is  rein- 
forced by  an  artificial  economic  climate  which  does  some 
of  the  work  attributed  to  the  natural  geographic  one; 
but  the  geographic  climate  is  eternal  and  irresistible, 
making  a  mankind  and  a  womankind  that  Kent,  Middle- 
sex, and  East  Anglia  cannot  produce  and  do  not  want  to 
imitate. 

How  can  I  sketch  the  broad  lines  of  the  contrast  as 
they  strike  me .''  Roughly  I  should  say  that  the  English- 
man is  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  his  imagination,  having 
no  sense  of  reality  to  check  it.  The  Irishman,  with  a 
far  subtler  and  more  fastidious  imagination,  has  one  eye 
always  on  things  as  they  are.  If  you  compare  Moore's 
visionary  Minstrel  Boy  with  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's 
quasi-realistic  Soldiers  Three,  you  may  yawn  over  Moore 
or  gush  over  him,  but  you  will  not  suspect  him  of  having 
had  any  illusions  about  the  contemporary  British  pri- 
vate; whilst  as  to  Mr.  Kipling,  you  will  see  that  he  has 
not,  and  unless  he  settles  in  Ireland  for  a  few  years 
will  always  remain  constitutionally  and  congenitally  in- 
capable of  having,  the  faintest  inkling  of  the  reality 
which  he  idolizes  as  Tommy  Atkins.  Perhaps  you  have 
never  thought  of  illustrating  the  contrast  between  Eng- 
lish and  Irish  by  Moore  and  j\Ir.  Kipling,  or  even  by 
Parnell  and  Gladstone.  Sir  Boyle  Roche  and  Shakespear 
may  seem  more  to  your  point.  Let  me  find  you  a  more 
dramatic  instance.  Think  of  the  famous  meeting  be- 
tween the  Duke  of  Wellington,  that  intensely  Irish 
Irishman,  and  Nelson,  that  intensely  English  English- 
man. Wellington's  contemptuous  disgust  at  Nelson's 
theatricality  as  a  professed  hero,  patriot,  and  rhapsode, 


xii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

a  theatric.ility  wliich  in  an  Irishman  would  have  been  an 
insufferably  vulgar  affectation,  was  quite  natural  and 
inevitable.  Wellington's  formula  for  that  kind  of  thing 
was  a  well  known  Irish  one:  "Sir:  dont  be  a  damned 
fool."  It  is  the  formula  of  all  Irishmen  for  all  English- 
men to  this  day.  It  is  the  formula  of  Larry  Doyle  for 
Tom  Broadbent  in  my  play,  in  spite  of  Doyle's  affection 
for  Tom.  Nelson's  genius,  instead  of  producing  intel- 
lectual keenness  and  scrupulousness,  produced  mere  de- 
lirium. He  was  drunk  with  glory,  exalted  by  his  fervent 
faith  in  the  sound  British  patriotism  of  the  Almighty, 
nerved  by  the  vulgarest  anti-foreign  prejudice,  and  ap- 
parently unchastened  by  any  reflections  on  the  fact  that 
he  had  never  had  to  fight  a  technically  capable  and 
properly  equipped  enemy  except  on  land,  where  he  had 
never  been  successful.  Compare  Wellington,  who  had 
to  fight  Napoleon's  armies.  Napoleon's  marshals,  and 
finally  Napoleon  himself,  without  one  moment  of  illusion 
as  to  the  human  material  he  had  to  command,  without 
one  gush  of  the  "  Kiss  me,  Hardy "  emotion  which 
enabled  Nelson  to  idolize  his  crews  and  his  staff,  with- 
out forgetting  even  in  his  dreams  that  the  normal  British 
officer  of  that  time  was  an  incapable  amateur  (as  he 
still  is)  and  the  normal  British  soldier  a  never-do-well 
(he  is  now  a  depressed  and  respectable  young  man). 
No  wonder  Wellington  became  an  accomplished  comedian 
in  the  art  of  anti-climax,  scandalizing  the  unfortunate 
Croker,  responding  to  the  demand  for  glorious  senti- 
ments by  the  most  disenchanting  touches  of  realism, 
and,  generally,  pricking  the  English  windbag  at  its  most 
explosive  crises  of  distention.  Nelson,  intensely  nervous 
and  theatrical,  made  an  enormous  fuss  about  victories  so 
cheap  that  he  would  have  deserved  shooting  if  he  had 
lost  them,  and,  not  content  with  lavishing  splendid  fight- 
ing on  helpless  adversaries  like  the  heroic  De.  Brueys 
or  Villeneuve  (who  had  not  even  the  illusion  of  heroism 
when  he  went  like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter),  got  himself 


Preface  for  Politicians  xiii 

killed  by  his  passion  for  exposing  himself  to  death  in 
that  sublime  defiance  of  it  which  was  perhaps  the  su- 
preme tribute  of  the  exquisite  coward  to  the  King  of 
Terrors  (for,  believe  me,  you  cannot  be  a  hero  without 
being  a  coward:  supersense  cuts  both  ways),  the  result 
being  a  tremendous  effect  on  the  gallery.  Wellington, 
most  capable  of  captains,  was  neither  a  hero  nor  a 
patriot:  perhaps  not  even  a  coward;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  Nelsonic  anecdotes  invented  for  him  — "  Up 
guards,  and  at  em  "  and  so  forth — and  the  fact  that 
the  antagonist  with  whom  he  finally  closed  was  such  a 
master  of  theatrical  effect  that  Wellington  could  not 
fight  him  without  getting  into  his  limelight,  nor  over- 
throw him  (most  unfortunately  for  us  all)  without  draw- 
ing the  eyes  of  the  whole  world  to  the  catastrophe,  the 
Iron  Duke  would  have  been  almost  forgotten  by  this 
time.  Now  that  contrast  is  English  against  Irish  all 
over,  and  is  the  more  delicious  because  the  real  Irishman 
in  it  is  the  Englishman  of  tradition,  whilst  the  real 
Englishman  is  the  traditional  theatrical  foreigner. 

The  value  of  the  illustration  lies  in  the  fact  that  both 
Nelson  and  Wellington  were  both  in  the  highest  degree 
efficient,  and  both  in  the  highest  degree  incompatible 
with  one  another  on  any  other  footing  than  one  of  inde- 
pendence. The  government  of  Nelson  by  Wellington 
or  of  Wellington  by  Nelson  is  felt  at  once  to  be  a  dis- 
honorable outrage  to  the  governed  and  a  finally  impos- 
sible task  for  the  governor. 

I  daresay  some  Englishmen  will  now  try  to  steal 
Wellington  as  ]Macaulay  tried  to  steal  Swift.  And  he 
may  plead  with  some  truth  that  though  it  seems  impos- 
sible that  any  other  country  than  England  could  produce 
a  hero  so  utterly  devoid  of  common  sense,  intellectual 
delicacy,  and  international  chivalry  as  Nelson,  it  may  be 
contended  that  Wellington  was  rather  an  eighteenth  cen- 
tury aristocratic  type,  than  a  specifically  Irish  type. 
George  IV.  and  Byron,  contrasted  with  Gladstone,  seem 


xiv  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

Irish  in  respect  of  a  certain  humorous  blackguardism, 
and  a  power  of  appreciating  art  and  sentiment  without 
being  duped  by  them  into  mistaking  romantic  figments 
for  realities.  But  faithlessness  and  the  need  for  carry- 
ing off  the  worthlessness  and  impotence  that  accompany 
it,  produce  in  all  nations  a  gay,  sceptical,  amusing,  blas- 
pheming, witty  fashion  which  suits  the  flexibility  of  the 
Irish  mind  very  well;  and  the  contrast  between  this 
fashion  and  the  energetic  infatuations  that  have  enabled 
intellectually  ridiculous  men,  without  wit  or  humor,  to 
go  on  crusades  and  make  successful  revolutions,  must 
not  be  confused  with  the  contrast  between  the  English 
and  Irish  idiosyncrasies.  The  Irishman  makes  a  dis- 
tinction which  the  Englishman  is  too  lazy  intellectually 
(the  intellectual  laziness  and  slovenliness  of  the  English 
is  almost  beyond  belief)  to  make.  The  Englishman, 
impressed  with  the  dissoluteness  of  the  faithless  wits  of 
the  Restoration  and  the  Regency,  and  with  the  victories 
of  the  wilful  zealots  of  the  patriotic,  religious,  and  revo- 
lutionary wars,  jumps  to  the  conclusion  that  wilfulness 
is  the  main  thing.  In  this  he  is  right.  But  he  overdoes 
his  jump  so  far  as  to  conclude  also  that  stupidity  and 
wrong-headedness  are  better  guarantees  of  efficiency  and 
trustworthiness  than  intellectual  vivacity,  which  he  mis- 
trusts as  a  common  symptom  of  worthlessness,  vice  and 
instability.  Now  in  this  he  is  most  dangerously  wrong. 
WTiether  the  Irishman  grasps  the  truth  as  firmly  as  the 
Englishman  may  be  open  to  question;  but  he  is  certainly 
comparatively  free  from  the  error.  That  affectionate 
and  admiring  love  of  sentimental  stupidity  for  its  own 
sake,  both  in  men  and  women,  which  shines  so  steadily 
through  the  novels  of  Thackeray,  would  hardly  be  pos- 
sible in  the  works  of  an  Irish  novelist.  Even  Dickens, 
though  too  vital  a  genius  and  too  severely  educated  in 
the  school  of  shabby-genteel  poverty  to  have  any  doubt 
of  the  national  danger  of  fatheadedness  in  high  places, 
evidently  assumes  rather  too  hastily  the  superiority  of 


of  dH^s  M^BWB^, 


E  T 

CI   " 


betfbftjff 


xvi  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

in  Ireland.  The  odds  against  which  our  leaders  have 
to  fight  would  be  too  heavy  for  the  fourth-rate  English- 
men whose  leadership  consists  for  the  most  part  in  mark- 
ing time  ostentatiously  vmtil  they  are  violently  shoved, 
and  then  stumbling  blindly  forward  (or  backward) 
wherever  the  shove  sends  them.  We  cannot  crush  Eng- 
land as  a  Pickford's  van  might  crush  a  perambulator. 
We  are  the  perambulator  and  England  the  Pickford. 
We  must  study  her  and  our  real  weaknesses  and  real 
strength ;  we  must  practise  upon  her  slow  conscience  and 
her  quick  terrors;  we  must  deal  in  ideas  and  political 
principles  since  we  cannot  deal  in  bayonets;  we  must 
outwit,  outwork,  outstay  her;  we  must  embarrass,  bully, 
even  conspire  and  assassinate  when  nothing  else  will 
move  her,  if  we  are  not  all  to  be  driven  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  shame  and  misery  of  our  servitude.  Our 
leaders  must  be  not  only  determined  enough,  but  clever 
enough  to  do  this.  We  have  no  illusions  as  to  the  exist- 
ence of  any  mysterious  Irish  pluck,  Irish  honesty,  Irish 
bias  on  the  part  of  Providence,  or  sterling  Irish  solidity 
of  character,  that  will  enable  an  Irish  blockhead  to  hold 
his  own  against  England.  Blockheads  are  of  no  use  to 
us:  we  were  compelled  to  follow  a  supercilious,  unpopu- 
lar, tongue-tied,  aristocratic  Protestant  ParneU,  although 
there  was  no  lack  among  us  of  fluent  imbeciles,  with 
majestic  presences  and  oceans  of  dignity  and  sentiment, 
to  promote  into  his  place  could  they  have  done  his  work 
for  us.  It  is  obviously  convenient  that  Mr.  Redmond 
should  be  a  better  speaker  and  rhetorician  than  Parnell; 
but  if  he  began  to  use  his  powers  to  make  himself  agree- 
able instead  of  making  himself  reckoned  with  by  the 
enemy;  if  he  set  to  work  to  manufacture  and  support 
English  shams  and  hypocrisies  instead  of  exposing  and 
denouncing  them;  if  he  constituted  himself  the  per- 
manent apologist  of  doing  nothing,  and,  when  the  people 
insisted  on  his  doing  something,  only  rouse<l  himself  to 
discover  how  to  pretend  to  do  it  without  really  changing 


Preface  for  Politicians  xvii 

anj'thing,  he  would  lose  his  leadership  as  certainly  as  an 
English  politician  would,  by  the  same  course,  attain  a 
permanent  place  on  the  front  bencli.  In  short,  our  cir- 
cumstances place  a  premium  on  political  ability  whilst 
the  circumstances  of  England  discount  it;  and  the  qual- 
ity of  the  supply  naturally  follows  the  demand.  If  you 
miss  in  my  writings  that  hero-worship  of  dotards  and 
duffers  which  is  planting  England  with  statues  of  disas- 
trous statesmen  and  absurd  generals,  the  explanation  is 
simply  that  I  am  an  Irishman  and  you  an  Englishman. 


Irish   Protestantism    Really   Protestant. 

Wlien  I  repeat  that  I  am  an  Irish  Protestant,  I  come 
to  a  part  of  the  relation  between  England  and  Ireland 
that  you  will  never  understand  unless  I  insist  on  ex- 
plaining it  to  you  with  that  Irish  insistence  on  intel- 
lectual clarity  to  which  my  English  critics  are  so  in- 
tensely recalcitrant. 

First,  let  me  tell  you  that  in  Ireland  Protestantism  is 
really  Protestant.  It  is  true  that  there  is  an  Irish 
Protestant  Church  (disestablished  some  35  years  ago) 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  Protestant  Church  is,  fimda- 
mentally,  a  contradiction  in  terms.  But  this  means  only 
that  the  Protestants  use  the  word  Church  to  denote  their 
secular  organization,  without  troubling  themselves  about 
the  metaphysical  sense  of  Christ's  famous  pun,  "  Upon 
this  rock  I  will  build  my  church."  The  Church  of  Eng- 
land, which  is  a  reformed  Anglican  Catholic  Anti- 
Protestant  Church,  is  quite  another  affair.  An  Anglican 
is  acutely  conscious  that  he  is  not  a  Wesleyan ;  and  many 
Anglican  clergymen  do  not  hesitate  to  teach  that  all 
Methodists  incur  damnation.  In  Ireland  all  that  the 
member  of  the  Irish  Protestant  Church  knows  is  that 
he  is  not  a  Roman  Catholic.  The  decorations  of  even 
the  "  lowest "  English  Church  seem  to  him  to  be  ex- 


xviii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

travagantiy  Ritualistic  and  Popish,  I  myself  entered 
the  Irish  Church  by  baptism,  a  ceremony  performed  by 
my  uncle  in  "  his  own  church."  But  I  was  sent,  with 
many  boys  of  my  own  denomination,  to  a  Wesleyan 
school  where  the  Wesleyan  catechism  was  taught  with- 
out the  least  protest  on  the  part  of  the  parents,  although 
there  was  so  little  presumption  in  favor  of  kny  boy  there 
being  a  Wesleyan  that  if  all  the  Church  boys  had  been 
withdrawn  at  any  moment,  the  school  would  have  become 
bankrupt.  And  this  was  by  no  means  analogous  to  the 
case  of  those  working  class  members  of  the  Church  of 
England  in  London,  who  send  their  daughters  to  Roman 
Catholic  schools  rather  than  to  the  public  elementary 
schools.  They  do  so  for  the  definite  reason  that  the 
nuns  teach  girls  good  manners  and  sweetness  of  speech, 
which  have  no  place  in  the  County  Council  curriculum. 
But  in  Ireland  the  Church  parent  sends  his  son  to  a 
Wesleyan  school  (if  it  is  convenient  and  socially  eligible) 
because  he  is  indifferent  to  the  form  of  Protestantism, 
provided  it  is  Protestantism.  There  is  also  in  Ireland 
a  characteristically  Protestant  refusal  to  take  ceremonies 
and  even  sacraments  very  seriously  except  by  way  of 
strenuous  objection  to  them  when  they  are  conducted 
with  candles  or  incense.  For  example,  I  was  never  con- 
firmed, although  the  ceremony  was  perhaps  specially 
needed  in  my  case  as  the  failure  of  my  appointed  god- 
father to  appear  at  the  font  led  to  his  responsibilities 
being  assumed  on  the  spot,  at  my  uncle's  order,  by  the 
sexton.  And  my  case  was  a  very  common  one,  even 
among  people  quite  untouched  by  modern  scepticisms. 
Apart  from  the  weekly  churchgoing,  which  holds  its  own 
as  a  respectable  habit,  the  initiations  are  perfunctory,  the 
omissions  regarded  as  negligible.  The  distinction  be- 
tween churchman  and  dissenter,  which  in  England  is  a 
class  distinction,  a  political  distinction,  and  even  occa- 
sionally a  religious  distinction,  does  not  exist.  Nobody 
is  surprised  in  Ireland  to  find  that  the  squire  who  is  the 


Preface  for  Politicians  xix 

local  pillar  of  the  formerly  established  Church  is  also  a 
Plymouth  Brother,  and,  except  on  certain  special  or 
fashionable  occasions,  attends  the  Methodist  meeting- 
house. The  parson  has  no  priestly  character  and  no 
priestly  influence:  the  High  Church  curate  of  course 
exists  and  has  his  vogue  among  religious  epicures  of  the 
other  sex;  but  the  general  attitude  of  his  congregation 
towards  him  is  that  of  Dr.  Clifford.  The  clause  in  the 
Apostles'  creed  professing  belief  in  a  Catholic  Church 
is  a  standing  puzzle  to  Protestant  children;  and  when 
they  grow  up  they  dismiss  it  from  their  minds  more 
often  than  they  solve  it,  because  they  really  are  not 
Catholics  but  Protestants  to  the  extremest  practicable 
degree  of  individualism.  It  is  true  that  they  talk  of 
church  and  chapel  with  all  the  Anglican  contempt  for 
chapel;  but  in  Ireland  the  chapel  means  the  Roman 
Catholic  church,  for  which  the  Irish  Protestant  reserves 
all  the  class  rancor,  the  political  hostility,  the  religious 
bigotry,  and  the  bad  blood  generally  that  in  England 
separates  the  Establishment  from  the  non-conforming 
Protestant  organizations.  When  a  vulgar  Irish  Protes- 
tant speaks  of  a  "  Papist  "  he  feels  exactly  as  a  vulgar 
Anglican  vicar  does  when  he  speaks  of  a  Dissenter.  And 
when  the  vicar  is  Anglican  enough  to  call  himself  a 
Catholic  priest,  wear  a  cassock,  and  bless  his  flock  with 
two  fingers,  he  becomes  horrifically  incomprehensible  to 
the  Irish  Protestant  Churchipan,  who,  on  his  part,  puz- 
zles the  Anglican  by  regarding  a  Methodist  as  tolerantly 
as  an  Irishman  who  likes  grog  regards  an  Irishman  who 
prefers  punch. 


A    Fundamental    Anomaly. 

Now  nothing  can  be  more  anomalous,  and  at  bottom 
impossible,  than  a  Conservative  Protestant  party  stand- 
ing  for   the   established   order   against   a   revolutionary 


XX  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

Catholic  party.  The  Protestant  is  theoretically  an 
anarchist  as  far  as  anarchism  is  practicable  in  human 
society:  that  is,  lie  is  an  individualist,  a  freethinker,  a 
self-heli^er,  a  Whig,  a  Liberal,  a  mistruster  and  vilifier 
of  the  State,  a  rebel.  The  Catholic  is  theoretically  a 
Collectivist,  a  self-abnegator,  a  Tory,  a  Conservative,  a 
supporter  of  Church  and  State  one  and  undivisible.  an 
obeyer.  This  would  be  a  statement  of  fact  as  well  as 
of  theory  if  men  were  Protestants  and  Catholics  by  tem- 
perament and  adult  choice  instead  of  by  family  tradi- 
tion. The  peasant  who  supposed  that  Wordsworth's  son 
would  carry  on  the  business  now  the  old  gentleman  was 
gone  was  not  a  whit  more  foolish  than  we  who  laugh 
at  his  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  poetry  whilst  we  take 
it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  a  son  should  "  carry  on  " 
his  father's  religion.  Hence,  owing  to  our  family  sys- 
tem, the  Catholic  Churches  are  recruited  daily  at  the 
font  by  temperamental  Protestants,  and  the  Protestant 
organizations  by  temperamental  Catholics,  with  conse- 
quences most  disconcerting  to  those  who  expect  history 
to  be  deducible  from  the  religious  professions  of  the 
men  who  make  it. 

iPtill,  though  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  may  occa- 
sionally catch  such  Tartars  as  Luther  and  Voltaire,  or 
the  Protestant  organizations  as  Newman  and  Manning, 
the  general  run  of  mankind  takes  its  impress  from  the 
atmosphere  in  which  it  is  brought  up.  In  Ireland  the 
Roman  Catholic  peasant  cannot  escape  the  religious  at- 
mosphere of  his  Church.  Except  when  he  breaks  out 
like  a  naughty  child  he  is  docile;  he  is  reverent;  he  is 
content  to  regard  knowledge  as  something  not  his  busi- 
ness; he  is  a  child  before  his  Church,  and  accepts  it  as 
the  highest  authority  in  science  and  philosophy.  He 
speaks  of  himself  as  a  son  of  the  Church,  calling  his 
priest  father  instead  of  brother  or  Mister.  To  rebel 
politically,  he  must  break  away  from  parish  tutelage  and 
follow  a   Protestant  leader  on  national  questions.      His 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxi 

Church  naturally  fosters  his  submissiveness.  The  Brit- 
ish Government  and  the  Vatican  may  differ  very  vehe- 
mently as  to  whose  subject  the  Irishman  is  to  be;  but 
they  are  quite  agreed  as  to  the  propriety  of  his  being  a 
subject.  Of  the  two,  the  British  Government  allows 
him  more  liberty,  giving  him  as  complete  a  democratic 
control  of  local  government  as  his  means  will  enable  him 
to  use,  and  a  voice  in  the  election  of  a  formidable  minor- 
ity in  the  House  of  Commons,  besides  allowing  him  to 
read  and  learn  what  he  likes — except  when  it  makes  a 
tufthunting  onslaught  on  a  seditious  newspaper.  But 
if  he  dared  to  claim  a  voice  in  the  selection  of  his  parish 
priest,  or  a  representative  at  the  Vatican,  he  would  be 
denounced  from  the  altar  as  an  almost  inconceivable 
blasphemer;  and  his  educational  opportunities  are  so 
restricted  by  his  Church  that  he  is  heavily  handicapped 
in  every  walk  of  life  that  requires  any  literacy.  It  is 
the  aim  of  his  priest  to  make  him  and  keep  him  a  sub- 
missive Conservative;  and  nothing  but  gross  economic 
oppression  and  religious  persecution  could  have  pro- 
duced the  strange  phenomenon  of  a  revolutionary  move- 
ment not  only  tolerated  by  the  Clericals,  but,  up  to  a 
certain  point,  even  encouraged  by  them.  If  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  political  science,  with  natural  laws  like 
any  other  science,  it  is  certain  that  only  the  most  violent 
external  force  could  effect  and  maintain  this  unnatural 
combination  of  political  revolution  with  Papal  reaction, 
and  of  hardy  individualism  and  independence  with 
despotism  and  subjugation. 

That  violent  external  force  is  the  clumsy  thumb  of 
English  rule.  If  you  would  be  good  enough,  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  England,  to  take  your  thumb  away  -and 
leave  us  free  to  do  something  else  than  bite  it,  the  un- 
naturally combined  elements  in  Irish  politics  would  fly 
asunder  and  recombine  according  to  their  proper  na- 
ture with  results  entirely  satisfactory  to  real  Protes- 
tantism, 


xxii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

The    Nature    of    Political    Hatred. 

Just  reconsider  the  Home  Rule  question  in  the  light 
of  that  very  English  characteristic  of  the  Irish  people, 
their  political  hatred  of  priests.  Do  not  be  distracted 
by  the  shriek  of  indignant  denial  from  the  Catholic 
papers  and  from  those  who  have  witnessed  the  charming 
relations  between  tlie  Irish  peasantry  and  their  spiritual 
fathers.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  the  Irish  love  their 
priests  as  de^^otedly  as  the  French  loved  them  before 
the  Revolution  or  as  the  Italians  loved  them  before  they 
imprisoned  the  Pope  in  the  Vatican.  They  love  their 
landlords  too:  many  an  Irish  gentleman  has  found  in 
his  nurse  a  foster-mother  more  interested  in  him  than 
his  actual  mother.  They  love  the  English,  as  every 
Englishman  who  travels  in  Ireland  can  testify.  Please 
do  not  sup23ose  that  I  speak  satirically:  the  world  is 
full  of  authentic  examples  of  the  concurrence  of  human 
kindliness  with  political  rancor.  Slaves  and  schoolboys 
often  love  their  masters;  Napoleon  and  his  soldiers 
made  desiderate  efforts  to  save  from  drowning  the 
Russian  soldiers  under  whom  they  had  broken  the  ice 
with  their  cannon;  even  the  relations  between  noncon- 
formist peasants  and  country  parsons  in  England  are 
not  invariably  unkindly;  in  the  southern  States  of 
America  planters  are  often  traditionally  fond  of  negroes 
and  kind  to  them,  with  substantial  returns  in  humble 
affection;  soldiers  and  sailors  often  admire  and  cheer 
their  officers  sincerely  and  heartily;  nowhere  is  actual 
personal  intercourse  found  compatible  for  long  with  the 
intolerable  friction  of  hatred  and  malice.  But  people 
who  persist  in  pleading  these  amiabilities  as  political 
factors  must  be  summarily  bimdled  out  of  the  room  when 
questions  of  State  are  to  be  discussed.  Just  as  an  Irish- 
man may  have  English  friends  whom  he  may  prefer  to 
any  Irishman  of  his  acquaintance,  and  be  kind,  hospi- 
table,  and  serviceable  in  his  intercourse  with   English- 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxiii 

men,  whilst  being  perfectly  prepared  to  make  the 
Shannon  run  red  with  English  blood  if  Irish  freedom 
could  be  obtained  at  that  price;  so  an  Irish  Catholic  may 
like  his  priest  as  a  man  and  revere  him  as  a  confessor 
and  spiritual  pastor  whilst  being  implacably  determined 
to  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  throwing  off  his  yoke. 
This  is  political  hatred:  the  only  hatred  that  civilization 
allows  to  be  mortal  hatred. 

The   Revolt  Against  the    Priest. 

Realize,  then,  that  the  popular  party  in  Ireland  is 
seething  with  rebellion  agamst  the  tyranny  of  the 
Church.  Imagine  the  feelings  of  an  English  farmer  if 
the  parson  refused  to  marry  him  for  less  than  £20,  and 
if  he  had  virtually  no  other  way  of  getting  married! 
Imagine  the  Church  Rates  revived  in  the  form  of  an 
unofficial  Income  Tax  scientifically  adjusted  to  your  tax- 
able capacity  by  an  intimate  knowledge  of  your  affairs 
verified  in  the  confessional !  Imagine  being  one  of  a 
peasantry  reputed  the  poorest  in  the  world,  under  the 
thumb  of  a  priesthood  reputed  the  richest  in  the  world! 
Imagine  a  Catholic  middle  class  continually  defeated  in 
the  struggle  of  professional,  official,  and  fashionable  life 
by  the  superior  education  of  its  Protestant  competitors, 
and  yet  forbidden  by  its  priests  to  resort  to  the  only 
efficient  universities  in  the  country !  Imagine  trying  to 
get  a  modern  education  in  a  seminary  of  priests,  where 
every  modern  book  worth  reading  is  on  the  index,  and 
the  earth  is  still  regarded,  not  perhaps  as  absolutely  flat, 
yet  as  being  far  from  so  spherical  as  Protestants  allege! 
Imagine  being  forbidden  to  read  this  preface  because 
it  proclaims  your  own  grievance !  And  imagine  being 
bound  to  submit  to  all  this  because  the  popular  side  must 
hold  together  at  all  costs  in  the  face  of  the  Protestant 
enemy !  That  is,  roughly,  the  predicament  of  Roman 
Catholic  Ireland. 


xxiv  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

Protestant   Loyalty:   A   Forecast. 

Now  let  us  have  a  look  at  Protestant  Ireland.  I  have 
already  said  that  a  "  loyal  "  Irishman  is  an  abhorrent 
phenomenon,  because  he  is  an  unnatural  one.  In  Ire- 
land it  is  not  "  loyalty "  to  drink  the  English  king's 
health  and  stand  uncovered  to  the  English  national  an- 
them: it  is  simply  exploitation  of  English  rule  in  the 
interests  of  the  property,  power,  and  promotion  of  the 
Irish  classes  as  against  the  Irish  masses.  From  any 
other  point  of  view  it  is  cowardice  and  dishonor.  I  have 
known  a  Protestant  go  to  Dublin  Castle  to  be  sworn  in 
as  a  special  constable^  quite  resolved  to  take  the  baton 
and  break  the  heads  of  a  patriotic  faction  just  then 
upsetting  the  peace  of  the  town,  yet  back  out  at  the  last 
moment  because  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  swallow 
the  oath  of  allegiance  tendered  with  the  baton.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  genuine  loyalty  in  Ireland.  There 
is  a  separation  of  the  Irish  people  into  two  hostile  camps : 
one  Protestant,  gentlemanly,  and  oligarchical;  the  other 
Roman  Catholic,  popular,  and  democratic.  The  oligarchy 
governs  Ireland  as  a  bureaucracy  deriving  authority  from 
the  king  of  England.  It  cannot  cast  him  off  without 
casting  off  its  OAvn  ascendancy.  Therefore  it  naturally 
exploits  him  sedulously,  drinking  his  health,  waving  his 
flag,  playing  his  anthem,  and  using  the  foolish  word 
"  traitor  "  freely  in  its  cups.  But  let  the  English  Gov- 
ernment make  a  step  towards  the  democratic  party,  and 
the  Protestant  garrison  revolts  at  once,  not  with  tears 
and  prayers  and  anguish  of  soul  and  years  of  trembling 
reluctance,  as  the  parliamentarians  of  the  XVII  century 
revolted  against  Charles  I,  but  with  acrid  promptitude 
and  strident  threatenings.  ^\^len  England  finally  aban- 
dons the  garrison  by  yielding  to  the  demand  for  Home 
Rule,  the  Protestants  will  not  go  under,  nor  will  they 
waste  much  time  in  sulking  over  their  betrayal,  and  com- 
paring their  fate  with  that  of  Gordon  left  by  Gladstone 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxv 

to  perish  on  the  spears  of  heathen  fanatics.  They  can- 
not afford  to  retire  into  an  Irish  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
They  will  take  an  energetic  part  in  the  national  govern- 
ment, which  will  be  sorely  in  need  of  parliamentary  and 
official  forces  independent  of  Rome.  They  will  get  not 
only  the  Protestant  votes,  but  the  votes  of  Catholics  in 
that  spirit  of  toleration  which  is  everywhere  extended  to 
heresies  that  happen  to  be  politically  serviceable  to  the 
orthodox.  They  will  not  relax  their  determination  to 
hold  every  inch  of  the  government  of  Ireland  that  they 
can  grasp;  but  as  that  government  will  then  be  a  na- 
tional Irish  government  instead  of  as  now  an  English 
government,  their  determination  will  make  them  the  van- 
guard of  Irish  Nationalism  and  Democracy  as  against 
Romanism  and  Sacerdotalism,  leaving  English  Unionists 
grieved  and  shocked  at  their  discovery  of  the  true  value 
of  an  Irish  Protestant's  loyalty. 

But  there  will  be  no  open  break  in  the  tradition  of  the 
party.  The  Protestants  will  still  be  the  party  of  Union, 
which  will  then  mean,  not  the  Repeal  of  Home  Rule, 
but  the  maintenance  of  the  Federal  Union  of  English- 
speaking  commonwealths,  now  theatrically  called  the 
Empire.  They  will  pull  down  the  Union  Jack  without 
the  smallest  scruple;  but  they  know  the  value  of  the 
Channel  Fleet,  and  will  cling  closer  than  brothers  to 
that  and  any  other  Imperial  asset  that  can  be  exploited 
for  the  protection  of  Ireland  against  foreign  aggression 
or  the  sharing  of  expenses  with  the  British  taxpayer. 
They  know  that  the  Irish  coast  is  for  the  English  in- 
vasion-scaremonger the  heel  of  Achilles,  and  that  they 
can  use  this  to  make  him  pay  for  the  boot. 

Protestant  Pugnacity. 

If  any  Englishman  feels  incredulous  as  to  this  view 
of  Protestantism  as  an  essentially  Nationalist  force  in 
Ireland,  let  him  ask  himself  which  leader  he,  if  he  were 


xxvi  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

an  Irishman,  would  rather  have  back  from  the  grave  to 
fight  England:  the  Catholic  Daniel  O'Connell  or  the 
Protestant  Parnell.  O'Connell  organized  the  Nationalist 
movement  only  to  draw  its  teeth,  to  break  its  determina- 
tion, and  to  declare  that  Repeal  of  the  Union  was  not 
worth  the  shedding  of  a  drop  of  blood.  He  died  in 
the  bosom  of  his  Church,  not  in  the  bosom  of  his  country. 
The  Protestant  leaders,  from  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald 
to  Parnell,  have  never  divided  their  devotion.  If  any; 
Englishman  thinks  that  they  would  have  been  more 
sparing  of  blood  than  the  English  themselves  are,  if 
cnl}'  so  cheap  a  fluid  could  have  purchased  the  honor  of 
Ireland,  he  greatly  mistakes  the  Irish  Protestant  temper. 
The  notion  that  Ireland  is  the  only  country  in  the  world 
not  worth  shedding  a  drop  of  blood  for  is  not  a  Protes- 
tant one,  and  certainly  not  countenanced  by  English 
practice.  It  was  hardly  reasonable  to  ask  Parnell  to 
shed  blood  quant,  stiff,  in  Egypt  to  put  an  end  to  the 
misgovernment  of  the  Khedive  and  replace  him  by  Lord 
Cromer  for  the  sake  of  the  English  bondholders,  and 
then  to  expect  him  to  become  a  Tolstoyan  or  an  O'Con- 
nellite  in  regard  to  his  own  country.  With  a  wholly 
Protestant  Ireland  at  his  back  he  might  have  bullied 
England  into  conceding  Home  Rule;  for  the  insensi- 
bility of  the  English  governing  classes  to  philosophical, 
moral,  social  considerations — in  short,  to  any  considera- 
tions which  require  a  little  intellectual  exertion  and 
sympathetic  alertness — is  tempered,  as  we  Irish  well 
know,  hj  an  absurd  susceptibility  to  intimidation. 

For  let  me  halt  a  moment  here  to  impress  on  you,  O 
English  reader,  that  no  fact  has  been  more  deeply 
stamped  into  us  than  that  we  can  do  nothing  with  an 
English  Government  unless  we  frighten  it,  any  more 
than  you  can  yourself.  When  power  and  riches  are 
thrown  haphazard  into  children's  cradles  as  they  are  in 
England,  you  get  a  governing  class  without  industry, 
character,  courage,  or  real  experience;  and  under  such 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxvii 

circumstances  reforms  are  produced  only  by  catastrophes 
followed  by  panics  in  which  "  something  must  be  done." 
Thus  it  costs  a  cholera  epidemic  to  achieve  a  Public 
Health  Act,  a  Crimean  War  to  reform  the  Civil  Service, 
and  a  gunpowder  plot  to  disestablish  the  Irish  Church. 
It  was  by  the  light,  not  of  reason,  but  of  the  moon,  that 
the  need  for  paying  serio-us  attention  to  the  Irish  land 
question  was  seen  in  England.  It  cost  the  American 
War  of  Independence  and  the  Irish  Volunteer  movement 
to  obtain  the  Irish  parliament  of  1782,  the  constitution 
of  which  far  overshot  the  nationalist  mark  of  today  in 
the  matter  of  indeiDcndence. 

It  is  vain  to  plead  that  this  is  human  nature  and  not 
class  weakness.  The  Japanese  have  proved  that  it  is 
possible  to  conduct  social  and  political  changes  intelli- 
gently and  providentially  instead  of  drifting  along  help- 
lessly until  public  disasters  compel  a  terrified  and  in- 
considerate rearrangement.  Innumerable  experiments  in 
local  government  have  shewn  that  when  men  are  neither 
too  poor  to  be  honest  nor  too_  rich  to  understand  and 
share  the  needs  of  the  people — as  in  New  Zealand,  for 
example — they  can  govern  much  more  providently  than 
our  little  circle  of  aristocrats  and  plutocrats. 

The  Just  Englishman. 

English  Unionists,  when  asked  what  they  have  to  say 
in  defence  of  their  rule  of  subject  peoples,  often  reply 
that  the  Englishman  is  just,  leaving  us  divided  between 
our  derision  of  so  monstrously  inhuman  a  pretension, 
and  our  impatience  with  so  gross  a  confusion  of  the 
mutually  exclusive  functions  of  judge  and  legislator. 
For  there  is  only  one  condition  on  which  a  man  can  do 
justice  between  two  litigants,  and  that  is  that  he  shall 
have  no  interest  in  common  with  either  of  them,  whereas 
it  is  only  by  having  every  interest  in  common  with  both 
of  them  that  he  can  govern  them  tolerably.     The  indis- 


xxviii        John  Bull's  Other  Island 

pensable  preliminary  to  Democracy  is  the  representation 
of  every  interest:  the  indispensable  preliminary  to 
justice  is  the  elimination  of  every  interest.  When  we 
want  an  arbitrator  or  an  umpire,  we  turn  to  a  stranger: 
when  we  want  a  government,  a  stranger  is  the  one  person 
we  will  not  endure.  The  Englishman  in  India,  for 
example,  stands,  a  very  statue  of  justice,  between  two 
natives.  He  says,  in  eifect,  "  I  am  impartial  in  your 
religious  disputes,  because  I  believe  in  neither  of  your 
religions.  I  am  imj^artial  in  your  conflicts  of  custom 
and  sentiment,  because  your  customs  and  sentiments  are 
different  from,  and  abj'smally  inferior  to,  my  own. 
Finally,  I  am  impartial  as  to  your  interests,  because  they 
are  both  equally  opposed  to  mine,  which  is  to  keep  you 
both  equally  powerless  against  me  in  order  that  I  may 
extract  money  from  you  to  pay  salaries  and  pensions  to 
myself  and  my  fellow  Englishmen  as  judges  and  rulers 
over  you.  In  return  for  which  you  get  the  inestimable 
benefit  of  a  government  that  does  absolute  justice  as 
between  Indian  and  Indian,  being  wholly  preoccupied 
with  the  maintenance  of  absolute  injustice  as  between 
India  and  England. 

It  will  be  observed  that  no  Englishman,  without  mak- 
ing himself  ridiculous,  could  pretend  to  be  perfectly  just 
or  disinterested  in  English  affairs,  or  would  tolerate  a 
proposal  to  establish  the  Indian  or  Irish  system  in  Great 
Britain.  Yet  if  the  justice  of  the  Englishman  is  suffi- 
cient to  ensure  the  welfare  of  India  or  Ireland,  it  ought 
to  suflSce  equally  for  England.  But  the  English  are  wise 
enough  to  refuse  to  trust  to  English  justice  themselves, 
preferring  democracy.  They  can  hardly  blame  the  Irish 
for  taking  the  same  view. 

In  short,  dear  English  reader,  the  Irish  Protestant 
stands  outside  that  English  Mutual  Admiration  Society 
which  you  call  the  Union  or  the  Empire.  You  may  buy 
a  common  and  not  ineffective  variety  of  Irish  Protestant 
by  delegating  your  powers  to  him    and  in  effect  making 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxix 

him  the  oppressor  and  you  his  sorely  bullied  and  both- 
ered catspaw  and  military  maintainer;  but  if  you  offer 
him  nothing  for  his  loyalty  except  the  natural  superior- 
ity of  the  English  character,  you  will — well,  try  the 
experiment,  and  see  what  will  happen !  You  would  have 
a  ten-times  better  chance  with  the  Roman  Catholic;  for 
he  has  been  saturated  from  his  youth  up  with  the  Im- 
perial idea  of  foreign  rule  by  a  spiritually  superior 
international  power,  and  is  trained  to  submission  and 
abnegation  of  his  private  judgment.  A  Roman  Catholic 
garrison  would  take  its  orders  from  England  and  let 
her  rule  Ireland  if  England  were  Roman  Catholic.  The 
Protestant  garrison  simply  seizes  on  the  English  power; 
uses  it  for  its  o^vn  purposes;  and  occasionally  orders  the 
English  Government  to  remove  an  Irish  secretary  who 
has  dared  to  apply  English  ideas  to  the  affairs  of  the 
garrison.  Whereupon  the  English  Government  abjectly 
removes  him,  and  implores  him,  as  a  gentleman  and  a 
loyal  Englishman,  not  to  reproach  it  in  the  face  of  the 
Nationalist  enemy. 

Such  incidents  naturally  do  not  shake  the  sturdy  con- 
viction of  the  Irish  Protestant  that  he  is  more  than  a 
match  for  any  English  Government  in  determination  and 
intelligence.  Here,  no  doubt,  he  flatters  himself;  for 
his  advantage  is  not  really  an  advantage  of  character, 
but  of  comjDarative  directness  of  interest,  concentration 
of  force  on  one  narrow  issue,  simplicity  of  aim,  with 
freedom  from  the  scruples  and  responsibilities  of  world- 
politics.  The  business  is  Irish  business,  not  English; 
and  he  is  Irish.  And  his  object,  which  is  simply  to 
secure  the  dominance  of  his  own  caste  and  creed  behind 
the  power  of  England,  is  simj^ler  and  clearer  than  the 
confused  aims  of  English  Cabinets  struggling  ineptly 
with  the  burdens  of  empire,  and  biassed  by  the  pressure 
of  capital  anywhere  rather  than  in  Ireland.  He  has  no 
responsibility,  no  interest,  no  status  outside  his  own 
country  and  his  own  movement,  which  means  that  he 


XXX  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

has  no  conscience  in  dealing  with  England;  whereas 
England,  having  a  very  uneasy  conscience,  and  many 
hindering  and  hampering  responsibilities  and  interests 
in  dealing  with  him,  gets  bullied  and  driven  by  him,  and 
finally  learns  sympathy  with  Nationalist  aims  by  her 
experience  of  the  tyranny  of  the  Orange  party. 

Irish   Catholicism   Forecast. 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  establishment  of  a  national 
government  were  to  annihilate  the  oligarchic  party  by 
absorbing  the  Protestant  garrison  and  making  it  a  Prot- 
estant National  Guard.  The  Roman  Catholic  laity,  now 
a  cipher,  would  organize  itself;  and  a  revolt  against 
Rome  and  against  the  priesthood  would  ensue.  The 
Roman  Catholic  Church  would  become  the  official  Irish 
Church.  The  Irish  parliament  would  insist  on  a  voice 
in  the  promotion  of  churchmen;  fees  and  contributions 
would  be  regulated;  blackmail  would  be  resisted;  sweat- 
ing in  conventual  factories  and  workshops  would  be 
stopped;  and  the  ban  would  be  taken  off  the  universities. 
In  a  word,  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  against  which 
Dublin  Castle  is  powerless,  would  meet  the  one  force 
on  earth  that  can  cope  with  it  victoriously.  That  force 
is  Democracy,  a  thing  far  more  Catholic  than  itself. 
Until  that  force  is  let  loose  against  it,  the  Protestant 
garrison  can  do  nothing  to  the  priesthood  except  con- 
solidate it  and  drive  the  people  to  rally  round  it  in 
defence  of  their  altars  against  the  foreigner  and  the 
heretic.  AMien  it  is  let  loose,  the  Catholic  laity  will 
make  as  short  work  of  sacerdotal  tyranny  in  Ireland  as 
it  has  done  in  France  and  Italy.  And  in  doing  so  it 
will  be  forced  to  face  the  old  problem  of  the  relations 
of  Church  and  State.  A  Roman  Catholic  party  must 
submit  to  Rome:  an  anti-clerical  Catholic  party  must  of 
necessity  become  an  Irish  Catholic  party.  The  Holy 
Roman  Empire,  like  the  other  Empires,  has  no  future 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxxi 

except  as  a  Federation  of  national  Catholic  Churches; 
for  Christianity  can  no  more  escape  Democracy  than 
Democracy  can  escape  Socialism.  It  is  noteworthy  in 
this  connection  that  the  Anglican  Catholics  have  played 
and  are  playing  a  notable  part  in  the  Socialist  movement 
in  England  in  opposition  to  the  individualist  Secularists 
of  the  urban  proletariat;  but  they  are  quit  of  the  pre- 
liminary dead  lift  that  awaits  the  Irish  Catholic.  Their 
Church  has  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  Rome,  and  is  safely 
and  permanently  Anglicized.  But  the  Catholic  Church 
in  Ireland  is  still  Roman.  Home  Rule  will  herald  the 
day  when  the  Vatican  will  go  the  way  of  Dublin  Castle, 
and  the  island  of  the  saints  assume  the  headship  of  her 
own  Church.  It  may  seem  incredible  that  long  after 
the  last  Orangeman  shall  lay  down  his  challc  for  ever, 
the  familiar  scrawl  on  every  blank  wall  in  the  north  of 
Ireland  "  To  hell  with  the  Pope !  "  may  reappear  in  the 
south,  traced  by  the  hands  of  Catholics  who  shall  have 
forgotten  the  traditional  counter  legend,  "  To  hell  with 
King  William !  "  (of  glorious,  pious  and  immortal  mem- 
ory) ;  but  it  may  happen  so.  "  The  island  of  the  saints  " 
is  no  idle  phrase.  Religious  genius  is  one  of  our  national 
products;  and  Ireland  is  no  bad  rock  to  build  a  Church 
on.  Holy  and  beautiful  is  the  soul  of  Catholic  Ireland: 
her  prayers  are  lovelier  than  the  teeth  and  claws  of 
Protestantism,  but  not  so  effective  in  dealing  with  the 
English. 

English  Voltaireanism. 

Let  me  familiarize  the  situation  by  shewing  how 
closely  it  reproduces  the  English  situation  in  its  essen- 
tials. In  England,  as  in  France,  the  struggle  between 
the  priesthood  and  the  laity  has  produced  a  vast  body  of 
Voltaireans.  But  the  essential  identity  of  the  French 
and  English  movements  has  been  obscured  by  the  ig- 
norance  of   the   ordinary   Englishman,   who,   instead   of 


xxxii         John  Bull's  Other  Island 

knowing  the  distinctive  tenets  of  his  ehurch  or  sect, 
vaguely  believes  them  to  be  the  eternal  truth  as  opposed 
to  the  damnable  error  of  all  the  other  denominations. 
He  thinks  of  Voltaire  as  a  French  "  infidel/'  instead  of 
as  the  chamjiion  of  the  laity  against  the  official  theocracy 
of  the  State  Church.  The  Nonconformist  leaders  of  our 
Free  Churches  are  all  Voltaireans.  The  warery  of  the 
Passive  Resisters  is  Voltaire's  warcry,  "  Ecrasez  I'in- 
fame."  No  account  need  be  taken  of  the  technical  dif- 
ference between  Voltaire's  "  infame  "  and  Dr.  Clifford's. 
One  was  the  unreformed  Roman  Church  of  France:  the 
other  is  the  reformed  Anglican  Church ;  but  in  both  cases 
the  attack  has  been  on  a  priestly  tyranny  and  a  profes- 
sional monopoly.  Voltaire  convinced  the  Genevan  minis- 
ters that  he  was  the  philosophic  champion  of  their 
Protestant,  Individualistic,  Democratic  Deism  against 
the  State  Church  of  Roman  Catholic  France;  and  his 
heroic  energy  and  beneficence  as  a  philanthropist,  which 
now  only  makes  the  list  of  achievements  on  his  monu- 
ment at  Ferney  the  most  impressive  epitaph  in  Europe, 
then  made  the  most  earnest  of  the  Lutheran  ministers 
glad  to  claim  a  common  inspiration  with  him.  Unfor- 
tunately Voltaire  had  an  irrepressible  sense  of  humor. 
He  joked  about  Habakkuk;  and  jokes  about  Habakkuk 
smelt  too  strongly  of  brimstone  to  be  tolerated  by  Prot- 
estants to  whom  the  Bible  was  not  a  literature  but  a 
fetish  and  a  talisman.  And  so  Voltaire,  in  spite  of  the 
church  he  "erected  to  God,"  became  in  England  the 
bogey-atheist  of  three  generations  of  English  igno- 
ramuses, instead  of  the  legitimate  successor  of  Martin 
Luther  and  John  Knox. 

Nowadays,  however,  Voltaire's  jokes  are  either  for- 
gotten or  else  fall  flat  on  a  world  which  no  longer 
venerates  Habakkuk;  and  his  true  position  is  becoming 
apparent.  The  fact  that  Voltaire  was  a  Roman  Catholic 
layman,  educated  at  a  Jesuit  college,  is  the  conclusive 
reply  to  the  shallow  people  who  imagine  that  Ireland 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxxiii 

delivered  up  to  the  Irish  democracy — that  is,  to  the 
Catholic  laity — would  be  delivered  up  to  the  tyranny 
of  the  priesthood. 

Suppose  ! 

Suppose,  now,  that  the  conquest  of  France  by  Henry 
V  of  England  had  endured,  and  that  France  in  the 
XVIII  century  had  been  governed  by  an  English  viceroy 
through  a  Hugenot  bureaucracy  and  a  judicial  bench 
appointed  on  the  understanding  that  loyalty  for  them 
meant  loyalty  to  England,  and  patriotism  a  willingness 
to  die  in  defence  of  the  English  conquest  and  of  the 
English  Church,  would  not  Voltaire  in  that  case  have 
been  the  meanest  of  traitors  and  self-seekers  if  he  had 
played  the  game  of  England  by  joining  in  its  campaign 
against  his  own  and  his  country's  Church?  The  energy 
he  threw  into  the  defence  of  Calais  and  Sirven  would 
have  been  thrown  into  the  defence  of  the  Frenchmen 
whom  the  English  would  have  called  "  rebels  " ;  and  he 
would  have  been  forced  to  identify  the  cause  of  freedom 
and  democracy  with  the  cause  of  "  I'infame."  The 
French  revolution  would  have  been  a  revolution  against 
England  and  English  rule  instead  of  against  aristocracy 
and  ecclesiasticism ;  and  all  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
forces  in  France,  from  Turgot  to  De  Tocqueville,  would 
have  been  burnt  up  in  mere  anti-Anglicism  and  national- 
ist dithyrambs  instead  of  contributing  to  political  science 
and  broadening  the  thought  of  the  world. 

"What  would  have  happened  in  France  is  what  has  hap- 
pened in  Ireland;  and  that  is  why  it  is  only  the  small- 
minded  Irish,  incapable  of  conceiving  what  religious 
freedom  means  to  a  country,  who  do  not  loathe  English 
rule.  For  in  Ireland  England  is  nothing  but  the  Pope's 
policeman.  She  imagines  she  is  holding  the  Vatican 
cardinals  at  bay  when  she  is  really  strangling  the  Vol- 
taires,   the    Foxes    and    Penns,   the    Cliffords,    Hortons, 


xxxiv        John  Bull's  Other  Island 

Campbells,  Walters,  and  Silvester  Homes,  who  are  to 
be  found  among  the  Roman  Catholic  laity  as  plentifully 
as  among  the  Anglican  Catholic  laity  in  England.  She 
gets  nothing  out  of  Ireland  but  infinite  trouble,  infinite 
confusion  and  hindrance  in  her  own  legislation,  a  hatred 
that  circulates  through  the  whole  world  and  poisons  it 
against  her,  a  reproach  that  makes  her  professions  of 
sympathy  with  Finland  and  Macedonia  ridiculous  and 
hypocritical,  whilst  the  priest  takes  all  the  spoils,  in 
money,  in  power,  in  pride,  and  in  popularity. 

Ireland's  Real  Grievance. 

But  it  is  not  the  spoils  that  matter.  It  is  the  waste, 
the  sterilization,  the  perversion  of  fruitful  brain  power 
into  flatulent  protest  against  unnecessary  evil,  the  use  of 
our  very  entrails  to  tie  our  own  hands  and  seal  our  own 
lips  in  the  name  of  our  honor  and  patriotism.  As  far  as 
money  or  comfort  is  concerned,  the  average  Irishman 
has  a  more  tolerable  life — especially  now  that  the  popu- 
lation is  so  scanty — than  the  average  Englishman.  It  is 
true  that  in  Ireland  the  poor  man  is  robbed  and  starved 
and  oppressed  under  judicial  forms  which  confer  the 
imposing  title  of  justice  on  a  crude  system  of  bludgeon- 
ing and  perjury.  But  so  is  the  Englishman.  The  Eng- 
lishman, more  docile,  less  dangerous,  too  lazy  intellectu- 
ally to  use  such  political  and  legal  poAver  as  lies  within 
his  reach,  suffers  more  and  makes  less  fuss  about  it 
than  the  Irishman.  But  at  least  he  has  nobody  to  blame 
but  himself  and  his  fellow  countrymen.  He  does  not 
doubt  that  if  an  eifective  majority  of  the  English  people 
made  up  their  minds  to  alter  the  Constitution,  as  the 
majority  of  the  Irish  people  have  made  up  their  minds 
to  obtain  Home  Rule,  they  could  alter  it  without  having 
to  fight  an  overwhelmingly  powerful  and  rich  neighbor- 
ing nation,  and  fight,  too,  with  ropes  round  their  necks. 
He  can   attack  any  institution   in  his   country  without 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxxv 

betrcaying  it  to  foreign  vengeance  and  foreign  oppres- 
sion. True,  his  landlord  may  turn  him  out  of  his  cottage 
I'f  he  goes  to  a  Methodist  chapel  instead  of  to  the  parish 
church.  His  customers  may  stop  their  orders  if  he  votes 
Liberal  instead  of  Conservative.  English  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  would  perish  sooner  than  shoot  a  fox 
do  these  things  without  the  smallest  sense  of  indecency 
and  dishonor.  But  they  cannot  muzzle  his  intellectual 
leaders.  The  English  philosopher,  the  English  author, 
the  English  orator  can  attack  every  abuse  and  expose 
every  superstition  without  strengthening  the  hands  of 
any  common  enemy.  In  Ireland  every  such  attack,  every 
such  exposure,  is  a  service  to  England  and  a  stab  to 
Ireland.  If  you  expose  the  tyranny  and  rapacity  of  the 
Church,  it  is  an  argument  in  favor  of  Protestant  ascend- 
ency. If  you  denounce  the  nepotism  and  jobbery  of  the 
new  local  authorities,  you  are  demonstrating  the  unfit- 
ness of  the  Irish  to  govern  themselves,  and  the  superior- 
ity of  the  old  oligarchical  grand  juries. 

And  there  is  the  same  pressure  on  the  other  side.  The 
Protestant  must  stand  by  the  garrison  at  all  costs:  the 
Unionist  must  wink  at  every  bureaucratic  abuse,  connive 
at  every  tyranny,  magnify  every  official  blockhead,  be- 
cause their  exposure  would  be  a  victory  for  the  National- 
ist enemy.  Every  Irishman  is  in  Lancelot's  position:  his 
honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stands;  and  faith  unfaithful 
keeps  him  falsely  true. 

The  Curse  of  Nationalism. 

It  is  hardly  possible  for  an  Englishman  to  understand 
all  that  this  implies.  A  conquered  nation  is  like  a  man 
with  cancer:  he  can  think  of  nothing  else,  and  is  forced 
to  place  himself,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  better  company, 
in  the  hands  of  quacks  who  profess  to  treat  or  cure 
cancer.  The  windbags  of  the  two  rival  platforms  are 
the  most  insufferable  of  all  windbags.    It  requires  neither 


xxxvi        John  Bull's  Other  Island 

knowledge,  character,  conscience,  diligence  in  public 
affairs,  nor  any  virtue,  private  or  communal,  to  thump 
the  Nationalist  or  Orange  tub:  nay,  it  puts  a  premium 
on  the  rancor  or  callousness  that  has  given  rise  to  the 
proverb  that  if  you  put  an  Irishman  on  a  spit  you  can 
always  get  another  Irishman  to  baste  him.  Jingo  oratory 
in  England  is  sickening  enough  to  serious  people:  indeed 
one  evening's  mafficking  in  London  produced  a  deter- 
mined call  for  the  police.  Well,  in  Ireland  all  political 
oratory  is  Jingo  oratory;  and  all  political  demonstrations 
are  maffickings.  English  rule  is  such  an  intolerable 
abomination  that  no  other  subject  can  reach  the  people. 
Nationalism  stands  between  Ireland  and  the  light  of  the 
world-  Nobody  in  Ireland  of  any  intelligence  likes 
'  Nationalism  any  more  than  a  man  with  a  broken  arm 
likes  having  it  set.  A  healthy  nation  is  as  unconscious 
of  its  nationality  as  a  healthy  man  of  his  bones.  But  if 
you  break  a  nation's  nationality  it  will  think  of  nothing 
else  but  getting  it  set  again.  It  will  listen  to  no  re- 
former, to  no  philosopher,  to  no  preacher,  until  the  de- 
mand of  the  Nationalist  is  granted.  It  will  attend  to 
no  business,  however  vital,  except  the  business  of  unifica- 
tion and  liberation. 

That  is  why  everything  is  in  abeyance  in  Ireland 
pending  the  achievement  of  Home  Rule.  The  great 
movements  of  the  human  spirit  which  sweep  in  waves 
over  Europe  are  stopped  on  the  Irish  coast  by  the  Eng- 
lish guns  of  the  Pigeon  House  Fort.  Only  a  quaint 
little  offshoot  of  English  pre-Raphaelitism  called  the 
Gaelic  movement  has  got  a  footing  by  using  Nationalism 
as  a  stalking-horse,  and  popularizing  itself  as  an  attack 
on  the  native  language  of  the  Irish  people,  which  is 
most  fortunately  also  the  native  language  of  half  the 
world,  including  England.  Every  election  is  fought  on 
nationalist  grounds;  every  appointment  is  made  on  na- 
tionalist grounds;  every  judge  is  a  partisan  in  the  nation- 
alist conflict;  every  speech  is  a  dreary  recapitulation  of 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxxvii 

nationalist  twaddle;  every  lecture  is  a  corruption  of 
history  to  flatter  nationalism  or  defame  it;  every  school 
is  a  recruiting  station;  every  church  is  a  barrack;  and 
every  Irishman  is  unspeakably  tired  of  the  whole  miser- 
able business,  which  nevertheless  is,  and  perforce  must 
remain  his  first  business  until  Home  Rule  makes  an  end  ;. 
of  it,  and  sweeps  the  nationalist  and  the  garrison  hack  Jj 
together  into  the  dustbin. 

There  is  indeed  no  greater  curse  to  a  nation  than  a 
nationalist  movement,  which  is  only  the  agonizing  symp- 
tom of  a  suppressed  natural  function.  Conquered 
nations  lose  their  place  in  the  world's  march  because 
they  can  do  nothing  but  strive  to  get  rid  of  their 
nationalist  movements  by  recovering  their  national  lib- 
erty. All  demonstrations  of  the  virtues  of  a  foreign 
government,  though  often  conclusive,  are  as  useless  as 
demonstrations  of  the  superiority  of  artificial  teeth,  glass 
eyes,  silver  windpipes,  and  patent  wooden  legs  to  the 
natural  products.  Like  Democracy,  national  self-gov- 
ernment is  not  for  the  good  of  the  people :  it  is  for  the 
satisfaction  of  the  people.  One  Antonine  emperor,  one 
St.  Louis,  one  Richelieu,  may  be  worth  ten  democracies 
in  point  of  what  is  called  good  government;  but  there 
is  no  satisfaction  for  the  people  in  them.  To  deprive 
a  dyspeptic  of  his  dinner  and  hand  it  over  to  a  man  who 
can  digest  it  better  is  a  highly  logical  proceeding;  but  it 
is  not  a  sensible  one.  To  take  the  government  of  Ireland 
away  from  the  Irish  and  hand  it  over  to  the  English 
on  the  groimd  that  they  can  govern  better  would  be  a 
precisely  parallel  case  if  the  English  had  managed  their 
own  affairs  so  well  as  to  place  their  superior  faculty 
for  governing  beyond  question.  But  as  the  English  are 
avowed  muddlers — rather  proud  of  it,  in  fact — even  the 
logic  of  that  case  against  Home  Rule  is  not  complete. 
Read  Mr.  Charles  Booth's  account  of  London,  Mr. 
Rowntree's  account  of  York,  and  the  latest  official  report 
on  Dundee;  and  then  pretend,  if  you  can,  that  English- 


xxxviii      John  Bulls  Other  Island 

men  and  Scotchmen  have  not  more  cause  to  hand  over 
their  affairs  to  an  Irish  parliament  than  to  clamor  for 
another  nation's  cities  to  devastate  and  another  peojjle's 
business  to  mismanage. 

A  Natural   Right. 

The  question  is  not  one  of  logic  at  all,  but  of  natural 
right.  English  universities  have  for  some  time  past  en- 
couraged an  extremely  foolish  academic  exercise  which 
consists  in  disproving  the  existence  of  natural  rights  on 
the  groimd  that  they  cannot  be  deduced  from  the  princi- 
ples of  any  known  political  system.  If  they  could,  they 
would  not  be  natural  rights  but  acquired  ones.  Acquired 
rights  are  deduced  from  political  constitutions;  but  po- 
litical constitutions  are  deduced  from  natural  rights. 
"VVlien  a  man  insists  on  certain  liberties  without  the 
slightest  regard  to  demonstrations  that  they  are  not  for 
his  own  good,  nor  for  the  public  good,  nor  moral,  nor 
reasonable,  nor  decent,  nor  compatible  with  the  existing 
constitution  of  society,  then  he  is  said  to  claim  a  natural 
right  to  that  liberty.  When,  for  instance,  he  insists,  in 
spite  of  the  irrefutable  demonstrations  of  many  able 
pessimists,  from  the  author  of  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes 
to  Schopenhauer,  that  life  is  an  evil,  on  living,  he  is 
asserting  a  natural  right  to  live.  When  he  insists  on  a 
vote  in  order  that  his  country  may  be  governed  according 
to  his  ignorance  instead  of  the  wisdom  of  the  Privy 
Council,  he  is  asserting  a  natural  right  to  self-govern- 
ment. When  he  insists  on  guiding  himself  at  21  by  his 
own  inexperience  and  folly  and  immaturity  instead  of 
by  the  experience  and  sagacity  of  his  father,  or  the  well 
stored  mind  of  his  grandmother,  he  is  asserting  a  natural 
right  to  independence.  Even  if  Home  Rule  were  as 
unhealthy  as  an  Englishman's  eating,  as  intemperate  as 
his  drinking,  as  filthy  as  his  smoking,  as  licentious  as 
his  domesticity,  as  corrupt  as  his  elections,  as  murder- 


Preface  for  Politicians  xxxix 

ously  greedy  as  his  commerce,  as  cruel  as  his  prisons, 
and  as  merciless  as  his  streets,  Ireland's  claim  to  self- 
government  would  still  be  as  good  as  England's.  King 
James  the  First  proved  so  cleverly  and  conclusively  that 
the  satisfaction  of  natural  rights  was  incompatible  with 
good  government  that  his  courtiers  called  him  Solomon. 
We,  more  enlightened,  call  him  Fool,  solely  because  we 
have  learnt  that  nations  insist  on  being  governed  by  their 
own  consent — or,  as  they  put  it,  by  themselves  and  for 
themselves  —  and  that  they  will  finally  upset  a  good 
government  which  denies  them  this  even  if  the  alter- 
native be  a  bad  government  which  at  least  creates  and 
maintains  an  illusion  of  democracy.  America,  as  far  as 
one  can  ascertain,  is  much  worse  governed,  and  has  a 
much  more  disgraceful  political  historj'^  than  England 
imder  Charles  I ;  but  the  American  Republic  is  the  stabler 
government  because  it  starts  from  a  formal  concession 
of  natural  rights,  and  keeps  up  an  illusion  of  safeguard- 
ing them  b}^  an  elaborate  machinery  of  democratic  elec- 
tion. And  the  final  reason  why  Ireland  must  have  Home 
Rule  is  that  she  has  a  natural  right  to  it. 

A  Warning. 

Finally,  some  words  of  warning  to  both  nations.  Ire- 
land has  been  deliberately  ruined  again  and  again  by 
England.  Unable  to  compete  with  us  industrially,  she 
has  destroyed  our  industries  by  the  brute  force  of  pro- 
hibitive taxation.  She  was  perfectly  right.  That  brute 
force  was  a  more  honorable  weapon  than  the  poverty 
which  we  used  to  undersell  her.  We  lived  with  and  as 
our  pigs,  and  let  loose  our  wares  in  the  Englishman's 
market  at  prices  which  he  could  compete  with  only  by 
living  like  a  pig  himself.  Having  the  alternative  of 
stopping  our  industry  altogether,  he  very  naturally  and 
properly  availed  himself  of  it.  We  should  have  done 
the  same  in  his  place.     To  bear  malice  against  him  on 


xl  John  BuU's  Other  Island 

that  score  is  to  poison  our  blood  and  weaken  our  con- 
stitutions with  unintelligent  rancor.  In  wrecking  all 
the  industries  that  were  based  on  the  poverty  of  our 
peojDle  England  did  us  an  enormous  service.  In  omitting 
to  do  the  same  on  her  own  soil,  she  did  herself  a  wrong 
that  has  rotted  her  almost  to  the  marrow,  I  hope  that 
when  Home  Rule  is  at  last  achieved,  one  of  our  first 
legislative  acts  will  be  to  fortify  the  subsistence  of  our 
people  behind  the  bulwark  of  a  standard  wage,  and 
impose  crushing  import  duties  on  every  English  trade 
that  flourishes  in  the  slum  and  fattens  on  the  starvation 
of  our  unfortunate  neighbors. 

Down  with  the  Soldier  ! 

Now  for  England's  share  of  warning.  Let  her  look 
to  her  Empire;  for  unless  she  makes  it  such  a  Federa- 
tion for  civil  strength  and  defence  that  all  free  peoples 
will  cling  to  it  voluntarily,  it  will  inevitably  become  a 
military  tyranny  to  prevent  them  from  abandoning  it; 
and  such  a  tyranny  will  drain  the  English  taxpayer  of 
his  money  more  effectually  than  its  worst  cruelties  can 
ever  drain  its  victims  of  their  liberty.  A  political  scheme 
that  cannot  be  carried  out  except  by  soldiers  will  not  be 
a  permanent  one.  The  soldier  is  an  anachronism  of 
which  we  must  get  rid.  Among  people  who  are  proof 
against  the  suggestions  of  romantic  fiction  there  can  no 
longer  be  any  question  of  the  fact  that  military  service 
produces  moral  imbecility,  ferocity,  and  cowardice,  and 
that  the  defence  of  nations  must  be  undertaken  by  the 
civil  enterprise  of  men  enjoying  all  the  rights  and  liber- 
ties of  citizenship,  and  trained  by  the  exacting  discipline 
of  democratic  freedom  and  responsibility.  For  perma- 
nent work  the  soldier  is  worse  than  useless:  such  effi- 
ciency as  he  has  is  the  result  of  dehumanization  and 
disablement.  His  whole  training  tends  to  make  him  a 
weakling.    He  has  the  easiest  of  lives :  he  has  no  freedom 


Preface  for  Politicians  xli 

and  no  responsibility.  He  is  politically  and  socially  a 
child^  with  rations  instead  of  rights,  treated  like  a  child, 
punished  like  a  child,  dressed  prettily  and  washed  and 
combed  like  a  child,  excused  for  outbreaks  of  naughti- 
ness like  a  child,  forbidden  to  marry  like  a  child,  and 
called  Tommy  like  a  child.  He  has  no  real  work  to 
keep  him  from  going  mad  except  housemaid's  work:  all 
the  rest  is  forced  exercise,  in  the  form  of  endless  re- 
hearsals for  a  destructive  and  terrifying  performance 
which  may  never  come  off,  and  which,  when  it  does 
come  off,  is  not  like  the  rehearsals.  His  officer  has  not 
even  housekeeper's  work  to  keep  him  sane.  The  work 
of  organizing  and  commanding  bodies  of  men,  which 
builds  up  the  character  and  resource  of  the  large  class 
of  civilians  who  live  by  it,  only  demoralizes  the  military 
officer,  because  his  orders,  however  disastrous  or  of- 
fensive, must  be  obeyed  without  regard  to  consequences: 
for  instance,  if  he  calls  his  men  dogs,  and  perverts  a 
musketry  drill  order  to  make  them  kneel  to  him  as  an 
act  of  personal  humiliation,  and  thereby  provokes  a 
mutiny  among  men  not  yet  thoroughly  broken  in  to  the 
abjectness  of  the  military  condition,  he  is  not,  as  might 
be  expected,  shot,  but,  at  worst,  reprimanded,  whilst 
the  leader  of  the  mutiny,  instead  of  getting  the  Victoria 
Cross  and  a  public  testimonial,  is  condemned  to  five 
years'  penal  servitude  by  Lynch  Law  (technically  called 
martial  law)  administered  by  a  trade  union  of  officers. 
Compare  with  this  the  position  of,  for  instance,  our 
railway  managers  or  our  heads  of  explosive  factories. 
They  have  to  handle  large  bodies  of  men  whose  care- 
lessness or  insubordination  may  cause  wholesale  destruc- 
tion of  life  and  property;  yet  any  of  these  men  may 
insult  them,  defy  them,  or  assault  them  without  special 
penalties  of  any  sort.  The  military  commander  dares 
not  face  these  conditions:  he  lives  in  perpetual  terror 
of  his  men,  and  will  luidertake  their  command  only  when 
ithey  are  stripped  of  all  their  civil  rights,  gagged,  and 


xlii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

bound  linnd  and  foot  by  a  barbarous  slave  code.  Thus 
the  officer  learns  to  punish,  but  never  to  rule;  and  when 
an  emergency  like  the  Indian  Mutiny  comes,  he  breaks 
down;  and  the  situation  has  to  be  saved  by  a  few  un- 
tyi^ical  officers  with  character  enough  to  have  retained 
their  civilian  qualities  in  sjoite  of  the  messroom.  This, 
unfortunately,  is  learnt  by  the  public,  not  on  the  spot, 
but  from  Lord  Roberts  fifty  years  later. 

Since  the  Mutiny  we  have  had  the  Crimean  and  South 
African  wars,  the  Dreyfus  affair  in  France,  the  incidents 
of  the  anti-militarist  campaign  by  the  Social-Democrats 
in  Germany,  and  now  the  Denshawai  affair  in  the  Nile 
delta,  all  heaping  on  us  sensational  demonstrations  of 
the  fact  that  soldiers  pay  the  penalty  of  their  slavery 
and  outlawry  by  becoming,  relatively  to  free  civilians, 
destructive,  cruel,  dishonest,  tyrannical,  hysterical,  men- 
dacious, alarmists  at  home  and  terrorists  abroad,  politi- 
cally reactionary,  and  professionally  incapable.  If  it 
were  humanly  possible  to  militarize  all  the  humanity  out 
of  a  man,  there  would  be  absolutely  no  defence  to  this 
indictment.  But  the  military  system  is  so  idiotically 
academic  and  impossible,  and  renders  its  victims  so  in- 
capable of  carrying  it  out  with  any  thoroughness  except 
when,  in  an  occasional  hysterical  outburst  of  terror  and 
violence,  that  hackneyed  comedy  of  civil  life,  the  weak 
man  putting  his  foot  down,  becomes  the  military  tragedy 
of  the  armed  man  burning,  flogging  and  murdering  in  a 
panic,  that  a  body  of  soldiers  and  officers  is  in  the  main, 
and  under  normal  circumstances,  much  like  any  other 
body  of  laborers  and  gentlemen.  Many  of  us  count 
among  our  personal  friends  and  relatives  officers  whose 
amiable  and  honorable  character  seems  to  contradict 
everything  I  have  just  said  about  the  military  character. 
You  have  only  to  describe  Lynch  courts  and  acts  of  ter- 
rorism to  them  as  the  work  of  Ribbonmen,  Dacoits, 
Moonlighters,  Boxers,  or — to  use  the  general  term  most 
familiar  to  them — "  natives,"  and  their  honest  and  geu- 


Preface  for  Politicians  xliii 

erous  indignation  knows  no  bounds:  they  feel  about 
them  like  men,  not  like  soldiers.  But  the  moment  you 
bring  the  professional  side  of  them  uppermost  by  de- 
scribing precisely  the  same  proceedings  to  them  as  the 
work  of  regular  armies,  they  defend  them,  applaud  them, 
and  are  ready  to  take  part  in  them  as  if  their  humanity 
had  been  blown  out  like  a  candle.  You  find  that  there 
is  a  blind  spot  on  their  moral  retina,  and  that  this  blind 
spot  is  the  military  spot. 

The  excuse,  when  any  excuse  is  made,  is  that  dis- 
cipline is  supremely  important  in  war.  Now  most  sol- 
diers have  no  experience  of  war;  and  to  assume  that 
those  who  have  are  therefore  qualified  to  legislate  for 
it,  is  as  absurd  as  to  assume  that  a  man  who  has  been 
run  over  by  an  omnibus  is  thereby  qualified  to  draw  up 
wise  regulations  for  tlie  traffic  of  London.  Neither  our 
military  novices  nor  our  veterans  are  clever  enough  to 
see  that  in  the  field,  discipline  either  keeps  itself  or 
goes  to  pieces;  for  humanity  under  fire  is  a  quite  differ- 
ent thing  from  humanity  in  barracks:  when  there  is 
danger  the  difficulty  is  never  to  find  men  who  will  obey^ 
but  men  who  can  command.  It  is  in  time  of  peace, 
when  an  army  is  either  a  police  force  (in  which  case  its 
work  can  be  better  done  by  a  civilian  constabulary) 
or  an  absurdity,  that  discipline  is  difficult,  because  the 
wasted  life  of  the  soldier  is  unnatural,  except  to  a  lazy 
man,  and  his  servitude  galling  and  senseless,  except  to 
a  docile  one.  Still,  the  soldier  is  a  man,  and  the  officer 
sometimes  a  gentleman  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word; 
and  so,  what  with  Immanity,  laziness,  and  docility  com- 
bined, they  manage  to  rub  along  with  only  occasional 
outbursts  of  mutiny  on  the  one  side  and  class  rancor 
and  class  cowardice  on  the  other. 

They  are  not  even  discontented;  for  the  military  and 
naval  codes  simplify  life  for  them  just  as  it  is  simplified 
for  children.  No  soldier  is  asked  to  think  for  himself, 
to  judge  for  himself,  to  consult  his  own  honor  and  man- 


xliv  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

hood,  to  dread  any  consequence  except  the  consequence 
of  punishment  to  his  own  person.  The  rules  are  plain 
and  simple;  the  ceremonies  of  respect  and  submission 
are  as  easy  and  mechanical  as  a  prayer  wheel;  the  orders 
are  always  to  be  obeyed  thoughtlessly,  however  inept  or 
dishonorable  they  may  be.  As  the  late  Laureate  said 
in  the  two  stinging  lines  in  which  he  branded  the  British 
soldier  with  the  dishonor  of  Esau,  "  theirs  not  to  reason 
why:  theirs  but  to  do  and  die."  To  the  moral  imbecile 
and  political  sluggard  these  conditions  are  as  congenial 
and  attractive  as  they  are  abhorrent  and  intolerable  to 
the  William  Tell  temperament.  Just  as  the  most  incor- 
rigible criminal  is  always,  we  are  told,  the  best  behaved 
convict,  so  the  man  with  least  conscience  and  initiative 
makes  the  best  behaved  soldier,  and  that  not  wholly 
through  mere  fear  of  punishment,  but  through  a  genuine 
fitness  for  and  consequent  happiness  in  the  childlike 
military  life.  Such  men  dread  freedom  and  responsi- 
bility as  a  weak  man  dreads  a  risk  or  a  heavy  burden; 
and  the  objection  to  the  military  system  is  that  it  tends 
to  produce  such  men  by  a  weakening  disuse  of  the  moral 
muscles.  No  doubt  this  weakness  is  just  what  the  mili- 
tary system  aims  at,  its  ideal  soldier  being,  not  a  complete 
man,  but  a  docile  imit  of  cannonfodder  which  can  be 
trusted  to  respond  promptly  and  certainly  to  the  external 
stimulus  of  a  shouted  order,  and  is  intimidated  to  the 
pitch  of  being  afraid  to  run  away  from  a  battle.  It 
may  be  doubted  whether  even  in  the  Prussian  heyday 
of  the  system,  when  floggings  of  hundreds  and  even 
thousands  of  lashes  were  matters  of  ordinary  routine, 
tliis  detestable  ideal  was  ever  realized;  but  3'our  courts- 
martial  are  not  practical  enough  to  take  that  into  ac- 
count: it  is  characteristic  of  the  military  mind  continu- 
ally to  ignore  human  nature  and  cry  for  the  moon 
instead  of  facing  modern  social  facts  and  accepting 
modern  democratic  conditions.  And.  when  I  say  the 
military  mind,   I   repeat  that  I  am  not  forgetting  the 


Preface  for  Politicians  xlv 

patent  fact  that  the  military  mind  and  the  humane  mind 
can  exist  in  the  same  jjerson;  so  that  an  officer  who  will 
take  all  the  civilian  risks,  from  city  traffic  to  foxhmiting, 
without  uneasiness,  and  who  will  manage  all  the  civil 
employees  on  his  estate  and  in  his  house  and  stables 
without  the  aid  of  a  ISIutiny  Act,  will  also,  in  his  military 
capacity,  frantically  declare  that  he  dare  not  walk  about 
in  a  foreign  country  unless  every  crime  of  violence 
against  an  Englishman  in  uniform  is  punished  by  the 
bombardment  and  destruction  of  a  whole  village,  or  the 
wholesale  flogging  and  execution  of  every  native  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  also  that  unless  he  and  his  fellow 
officers  have  power,  without  the  intervention  of  a  jury, 
to  punish  the  slightest  self-assertion  or  hesitation  to 
obey  orders,  however  grossly  insulting  or  disastrous 
those  orders  maj'  be,  with  sentences  which  are  reserved 
in  civil  life  for  the  worst  crimes,  he  cannot  secure  the 
obedience  and  respect  of  his  men,  and  the  country  will 
accordingly  lose  all  its  colonies  and  deiaendencies,  and 
be  helplessly  conquered  in  the  German  invasion  which 
he  confidently  expects  to  occur  in  the  course  of  a  fort- 
night or  so.  That  is  to  say,  in  so  far  as  he  is  an  ordinary 
gentleman  he  behaves  sensibly  and  courageously;  and 
in  so  far  as  he  is  a  military  man  he  gives  way  without 
shame  to  the  grossest  folly,  cruelty  and  poltroonery.  If 
any  other  profession  in  the  world  had  been  stained  by 
these  vices,  and  by  false  witness,  forgery,  swindling, 
torture,  compiilsion  of  men's  families  to  attend  their 
executions,  digging  up  and  mutilation  of  dead  enemies, 
all  wantonly  added  to  the  devastation  proper  to  its  own 
business,  as  the  military  profession  has  been  within  re- 
cent memory  in  England,  France,  and  the  United  States 
of  America  (to  mention  no  other  countries),  it  would 
be  very  difficult  to  induce  men  of  capacity  and  character 
to  enter  it.  And  in  England  it  is,  in  fact,  largely  de- 
pendent for  its  recruits  on  the  refuse  of  industrial  life, 
and  for  its  officers  on  the  aristocratic  and  plutocratic 


xhi  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

refuse  of  political  and  diplomatic  life,  who  join  the 
army  and  pay  for  their  positions  in  the  more  or  less 
fashionable  clubs  which  the  regimental  messes  provide 
them  with — clubs  which,  by  the  way.  occasionally  figure 
in  ragging  scandals  as  circles  of  extremely  coarse  moral 
character. 

Now  in  countries  which  are  denied  Home  Rule:  that 
is,  in  which  the  government  does  not  rest  on  the  consent 
of  the  people,  it  must  rest  on  military  coercion;  and  the 
bureaucracy,  however  civil  and  legal  it  may  be  in  form 
and  even  in  the  character  of  its  best  officials,  must  con- 
nive at  all  the  atrocities  of  military  rule,  and  become 
infected  in  the  end  with  the  chronic  panic  characteristic 
of  militarism.  In  recent  witness  whereof,  let  me  shift 
the  scene  from  Ireland  to  Egypt,  and  tell  the  story  of 
the  Denshawai  affair  of  June  1906  by  way  of  object 
lesson. 


The   Dexshawai   Horror. 

Denshawai  is  a  little  Egyptian  village  in  the  Nile 
delta.  Besides  the  dilapidated  huts  among  the  reeds  by 
the  roadside,  and  the  palm  trees,  there  are  towers  of 
unbaked  brick,  as  unaccountable  to  an  English  villager 
as  a  Kentish  oast-house  to  an  Egypti;ui.  These  towers 
are  pigeon  houses;  for  the  villagers  keep  pigeons  just 
as  an  English  farmer  keeps  poultry. 

Try  to  imagine  the  feelings  of  an  English  village  if  a 
party  of  Chinese  officers  suddenly  appeared  and  began 
shooting  the  ducks,  the  geese,  the  hens  and  the  turkeys, 
and  carried  them  off,  asserting  that  they  were  wild  birds, 
as  everybody  in  China  knew,  and  that  the  jiretended 
indignation  of  the  farmers  was  a  cloak  for  hatred  of 
the  Chinese,  and  perhaps  for  a  plot  to  overthrow  the 
religion  of  Confucius  and  establish  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land in  its  place!  Well,  that  is  the  British  equivalent 
of  what  happened  at  Denshawai  when  a  party  of  Eng- 


Preface  for  Politicians  ,  xlvii 

lish  officers  went  pigeon-shooting  there  the  year  before 
last.  The  inhabitants  complained  and  memorialized;  but 
they  obtained  no  redress:  the  law  failed  them  in  their 
hour  of  need.  So  one  leading  family  of  pigeon  farmers, 
Mahfouz  by  name,  despaired  of  the  law;  and  its  head, 
Hassan  Mahfouz,  aged  60,  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
submit  tamely  to  a  repetition  of  the  outrage.  Also,  Brit- 
ish officers  were  ordered  not  to  shoot  pigeons  in  the 
villages  without  the  consent  of  the  Omdeh,  or  head  man, 
though  nothing  was  settled  as  to  what  might  happen  to 
the  Omdeh  if  he  ventured  to  refuse. 

Fancy  the  feelings  of  Denshawai  when  on  the  13th 
of  June  last  there  drove  to  the  village  four  khaki-clad 
British  officers  Avith  guns,  one  of  them  being  a  shooter 
of  the  year  before,  accompanied  by  one  other  officer  on 
horseback,  and  also  by  a  dragoman  and  an  Ombashi,  or 
police  official!  The  oriental  blood  of  Hassan  Mahfouz 
boiled;  and  he  warned  them  that  they  would  not  be 
allowed  to  shoot  pigeons ;  but  as  they  did  not  understand 
his  language,  the  warning  had  no  effect.  They  sent 
their  dragoman  to  ask  the  Omdeh's  permission  to  shoot; 
but  the  Omdeh  was  away;  and  all  the  interpreter  could 
get  from  the  Omdeh's  deputy,  who  knew  better  than  to 
dare  an  absolute  refusal,  was  the  pretty  obvious  reply 
that  they  might  shoot  if  they  went  far  enough  away 
from  the  village.  On  the  strength  of  this  welcome,  they 
went  from  100  to  300  yards  away  from  the  houses 
(these  distances  were  afterwards  officially  averaged  at 
500  yards),  and  began  shooting  the  villagers'  pigeons. 
The  villagers  remonstrated  and  finally  seized  the  gun 
of  the  youngest  officer.  It  went  off  in  the  struggle,  and 
wounded  three  men  and  the  wife  of  one  Abd-el-Xebi, 
a  young  man  of  25.  Now  the  lady,  though,  as  it  turned 
out,  only  temporarily  disabled  by  a  charge  of  pigeon 
shot  in  the  softest  part  of  her  person,  gave  herself  up 
for  dead;  and  the  feeling  in  the  village  was  much  as  if 
our  imaginary  Chinese  officers,  on  being  interfered  with 


xlviii         John  Bull's  Other  Island 

in  their  slaughter  of  turkeys,  had  killed  an  English 
farmer's  wife.  Abd-el-Nebi,  her  husband,  took  the  mat- 
ter to  heart,  not  altogether  without  reason,  we  may  admit. 
His  threshing  floor  also  caught  fire  somehow  (the  official 
English  theory  is  that  he  set  it  on  fire  as  a  signal  for 
revolt  to  the  entire  ]Moslem  world)  ;  and  all  the  lads 
and  loafers  in  the  place  were  presently  on  the  spot. 
The  other  officers,  seeing  their  friend  in  trouble,  joined 
him.  Abd-el-Xcbi  hit  the  supposed  murderer  of  his  wife 
with  a  stick;  Hassan  Mahfouz  used  a  stick  also;  and  the 
lads  and  loafers  began  to  throw  stones  and  bricks.  Five 
London  policemen  would  have  seen  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done  but  fight  their  way  out,  as  there  is  no 
use  arguing  with  an  irritated  mob,  especially  if  you  do 
not  know  its  language.  Had  the  shooting  party  been 
in  the  charge  of  a  capable  non-commissioned  officer,  he 
would  perhaps  have  got  it  safely  off.  As  it  was,  the 
officers  tried  propitiation,  making  their  overtures  in  pan- 
tomime. They  gave  up  their  guns;  they  offered  watches 
and  money  to  the  crowd,  crying  Baksheesh;  and  the 
senior  officer  actually  collared  the  junior  and  pretended 
to  arrest  him  for  the  murder  of  the  woman.  Naturally 
they  were  mobbed  worse  than  before;  and  what  they  did 
not  give  to  the  crowd  was  taken  from  them,  whether  as 
payment  for  the  pigeons,  blood  money,  or  simple  plun- 
der was  not  gone  into.  The  officers,  two  Irishmen  and 
three  Englishmen,  having  made  a  hopeless  mess  of  it, 
and  being  now  in  serious  danger,  made  for  their  car- 
riages, but  were  dragged  out  of  them  again,  one  of  the 
coachmen  being  knocked  senseless.  They  then  "  agreed 
to  run,"  the  arrangement  being  that  the  Englishmen, 
being  the  juniors,  should  run  away  to  camp  and  bring 
he]])  to  the  Irishmen.  They  bolted  accordingly;  but  the 
third,  the  youngest,  seeing  the  two  Irishmen  hard  put 
to  it,  went  back  and  stood  by  them.  Of  the  two  fugitives, 
one,  after  a  long  race  in  the  Egyptian  afternoon  sun, 
got  to  the  next  village  and  there  dropped,  smitten  by 


Preface  for  Politicians  xlix 

sunstroke,  of  which  he  died.  The  other  ran  on  and  met 
a  patrol,  which  started  to  the  rescue. 

Meanwhile,  the  other  three  officers  had  been  taken  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  lads  and  the  loafers,  of  Abd-el-Nebi 
and  Hassan  Mahfouz,  by  the  elders  and  watchmen,  and 
saved  from  further  injury,  but  not  before  they  had  been 
severely  knocked  about,  one  of  them  having  one  of  the 
bones  of  his  left  arm  broken  near  the  wrist — simple 
fracture  of  the  thin  end  of  the  ulna.  They  were  also 
brought  to  the  threshing  floor;  shewn  the  wounded 
woman ;  informed  by  gestures  that  they  deserved  to  have 
their  throats  cut  for  murdering  her;  and  kicked  (with 
naked  feet,  fortunately)  ;  but  at  this  point  the  elders 
and  constables  stopped  the  mobbing.  Finally  the  three 
were  sent  off"  to  camp  in  their  carriages ;  and  the  incident 
ended  for  that  day. 

No  English  mob,  under  similar  provocation,  would 
have  behaved  any  better;  and  few  would  have  done  as 
little  mischief.  It  is  not  many  months  since  an  old  man 
— not  a  foreigner  and  not  an  unbeliever — was  kicked  to 
death  in  the  streets  of  London  because  the  action  of  a 
park  constable  in  turning  him  out  of  a  public  park  ex- 
posed him  to  suspicion  of  misconduct.  At  Denshawai, 
the  officers  were  not  on  duty.  In  their  private  capacity 
as  sportsmen,  they  committed  a  serious  depredation  on 
a  very  poor  village  by  slaughtering  its  stock.  In  an 
English  village  they  would  .have  been  tolerated  because 
the  farmers  would  have  expected  compensation  for  dam- 
age, and  the  villagers  coals  and  blankets  and  employ- 
ment in  country  house,  garden  and  stable,  or  as  beaters, 
huntsmen  and  the  like,  from  them.  But  Denshawai  had 
no  such  inducements  to  submit  to  their  thoughtless  and 
selfish  aggression.  One  of  them  had  apparently  killed 
a  woman  and  wounded  three  men  with  his  gun:  in  fact 
his  own  comrade  virtually  convicted  him  of  it  before 
the  crowd  by  collaring  him  as  a  prisoner.  In  short,  the 
officers  had  given  outrageous  provocation;  and  the^^  had 


1  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

shown  an  amiable  but  disastrous  want  of  determination 
and  judgment  in  dealing  with  the  riot  they  provoked. 
They  should  have  been  severely  reprimanded  and  in- 
formed that  they  had  themselves  to  thank  for  what  hap- 
pened to  them;  and  the  villagers  who  assaulted  them 
should  have  been  treated  with  leniency,  and  assured 
that  pigeon-shooting  would  not  be  allowed  in  future. 

That  is  what  should  have  ensued.  Now  for  what 
actually  did  ensue. 

Abd-el-Xebi,  in  consideration  of  the  injury  to  his 
wife,  was  only  sentenced  to  penal  servitude  for  life. 
And  our  clemency  did  not  stop  there.  His  wife  was 
not  punished  at  all — not  even  charged  with  stealing  the 
shot  which  was  found  in  her  person.  And  lest  Abd-el- 
Nebi  should  feel  lonely  at  25  in  beginning  penal  servi- 
tude for  the  rest  of  his  days,  another  yoxing  man,  of  20, 
was  sent  to  penal  servitude  for  life  with  him. 

No  such  sentimentality  was  shewn  to  Hassan  Mah- 
fouz.  An  Egyptian  pigeon  farmer  who  objects  to  Brit- 
ish sport;  threatens  British  officers  and  gentlemen  when 
they  shoot  his  pigeons;  and  actually  hits  those  officers 
with  a  substantial  stick,  is  clearly  a  ruffian  to  be  made 
an  example  of.  Penal  servitude  was  not  enough  for  a 
man  of  60  who  looked  70,  and  might  not  have  lived  to 
suffer  five  years  of  it.  So  Hassan  was  hanged;  but  as 
a  special  mark  of  consideration  for  his  family,  he  was 
hanged  in  full  view  of  his  own  house,  with  his  wives 
and  children  and  grandchildren  enjoying  the  spectacle 
from  the  roof.  And  lest  this  privilege  should  excite 
jealousy  in  other  households,  three  other  Denshavians 
were  hanged  with  him.  They  went  through  the  cere- 
mony with  dignity,  professing  their  faith  ("  Mahometan, 
I  regret  to  say,"  Mr.  Pecksniff  would  have  said).  Has- 
san, however,  "  in  a  loud  voice  invoked  ruin  upon  the 
houses  of  tliose  who  had  given  evidence  against  him"; 
and  Darweesh  was  impatient  and  presumed  to  tell  the 
hangman  to  be  quick.     But  then  Darweesh  was  a  bit  of 


Preface  for  Politicians  li 

a  brigand:  he  had  been  imprisoned  for  bearing  false 
witness;  and  his  resistance  to  the  British  invasion  is  the 
only  officially  recorded  incident  of  his  life  which  is 
entirely  to  his  credit.  He  and  Abd-el-Nebi  (who  had 
been  imprisoned  for  theft)  were  the  only  disreputable 
characters  among  the  punished.  Ages  of  the  four 
hanged  men  respectively,  60,  50,  22  and  20. 

Hanging,  however,  is  the  least  sensational  form  of 
public  execution:  it  lacks  those  elements  of  blood  and 
torture  for  which  the  military  and  bureaucratic  imagina- 
tion lusts.  So,  as  they  had  room  for  only  one  man  on 
the  gallows,  and  had  to  leave  him  hanging  half  an  hour 
to  make  sure  work  and  give  his  family  plenty  of  time 
to  watch  him  swinging  ("  slowly  turning  round  and 
round  on  himself,"  as  the  local  papers  described  it),  thus 
having  two  hours  to  kill  as  well  as  four  men,  they  kept 
the  entertainment  going  by  flogging  eight  men  with 
fifty  lashes  each:  eleven  more  than  the  utmost  permitted 
by  the  law  of  Moses  in  times  which  our  Army  of  Occu- 
pation no  doubt  considers  barbarous.  But  then  Moses 
conceived  his  law  as  being  what  he  called  the  law  of 
God,  and  not  simply  an  instrument  for  the  gratification 
of  his  own  cruelty  and  terror.  It  is  unspeakably  reas- 
suring to  learn  from  the  British  official  reports  laid  be- 
fore parliament  that  "  due  dignity  was  observed  in 
carrying  out  the  executions,"  that  "  all  possible  human- 
ity was  shown  in  carrying  them  out,"  and  that  "  the 
arrangements  were  admirable,  and  reflect  great  credit 
on  all  concerned."  As  this  last  testimonial  apparently 
does  not  refer  to  the  victims,  they  are  evidently  officially,! 
considered  not  to  have  been  concerned  in  the  proceedings 
at  all.  Finallj',  Lord  Cromer  certifies  that  the  English- 
man in  charge  of  the  proceedings  is  "  a  singularly  hu- 
mane man,  and  is  very  popular  amongst  the  natives  of 
Egypt  by  reason  of  the  great  sympathy  he  has  always 
shown  for  them."  It  will  be  seen  that  Parliamentary 
Papers,  Nos.  3  and  4,  Egypt,  1906,  are  not  lacking  in 


lii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

unconscious  humor.  The  official  walrus  pledges  himself 
in  every  case  for  the  kindliness  of  the  official  carpenter. 

One  man  was  actually  let  off,  to  the  great  danger  of 
the  British  Empire  perhaps.  Still,  as  he  was  an  epilep- 
tic, and  had  already  had  several  fits  in  the  court  of 
Judge  Lynch,  the  doctor  said  Better  not;  and  he  escaped. 
This  was  very  inconvenient;  for  the  number  of  floggees 
had  been  made  up  solely  to  fill  the  time  occupied  by 
the  hangings  at  the  rate  of  two  floggings  per  hanging; 
and  the  breakdown  of  the  arrangement  through  Said 
Suleiman  Kheirallah's  inconsiderate  indisposition  made 
the  execution  of  Darweesh  tedious,  as  he  was  hanging 
for  fully  quarter  of  an  hour  without  any  flogging  to 
amuse  his  fellow  villagers  and  the  officers  and  men  of 
the  Inniskilling  Dragoons,  the  military  moimted  police, 
and  the  mounted  infantry.  A  few  spare  sentences  of 
flogging  should  have  been  kept  in  hand  to  provide  against 
accidents. 

In  any  case  there  was  not  time  to  flog  everybody,  nor 
to  flog  three  of  the  floggees  enough;  so  these  three  had 
a  year's  hard  labor  apiece  in  addition  to  their  floggings. 
Six  others  were  not  flogged  at  all,  but  were  sent  to  penal 
servitude  for  seven  years  each.  One  man  got  fifteen 
years.  Total  for  the  morning's  work:  four  hanged,  two 
to  penal  servitude  for  life,  one  to  fifteen  years  penal 
servitude,  six  to  seven  years  penal  servitude,  three  to 
imprisonment  for  a  year  with  hard  labor  and  fifty 
lashes,  and  five  to  fifty  lashes. 

Lord  Cromer  certifies  that  these  proceedings  were 
"  just  and  necessary."  He  also  gives  his  reasons.  It 
appears  that  the  boasted  justice  introduced  into  Egypt 
by  the  English  in  1882  was  imaginary,  and  that  the  real 
work  of  coping  with  Egyptian  disorder  was  done  by 
Brigandage  Commissions,  composed  of  Egyptians. 
These  Commissions,  when  an  ofi'ence  was  reported, 
descended  on  the  inculpated  village;  seized  everybody 
concerned;   and   plied  them   with  tortures,  mentionable 


Preface  for  Politicians  liii 

and  unmentionable,  until  they  accused  everybody  they 
were  expected  to  accuse.  The  accused  were  in  turn 
tortured  until  they  confessed  anything  and  everything 
they  were  accused  of.  They  were  then  killed,  flogged, 
or  sent  to  penal  servitude.  This  was  the  reality  behind 
the  illusion  that  soothed  us  after  bombarding  Alexan- 
dria. The  bloodless,  white-gloved  native  courts  set  up 
to  flatter  our  sense  of  imperial  justice  had,  apparently, 
about  as  much  to  do  with  the  actual  government  of  the 
fellaheen  as  the  annual  court  which  awards  the  Dun- 
mow  flitch  of  bacon  has  to  do  with  our  divorce  court. 
Eventually  a  Belgian  judge,  who  was  appointed  Pro- 
cureur-General,  exposed  the  true  state  of  aff"airs. 

Then  the  situation  had  to  be  faced.  Order  had  to  be 
maintained  somehow ;  but  the  regular  native  courts  which 
saved  the  face  of  the  British  Occupation  were  useless 
for  the  purpose;  and  the  Brigandage  Commissions  were 
so  abominable  and  demoralizing  that  they  made  more 
mischief  than  they  prevented.  Besides,  there  was  Mr. 
Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  on  the  warpath  against  tyranny 
and  torture,  threatening  to  get  questions  asked  in  par- 
liament. A  new  sort  of  tribunal  in  the  nature  of  a 
court-martial  had  therefore  to  be  invented  to  replace 
the  Brigandage  Commissions ;  but  simple  British  military 
courts-martial,  though  probably  the  best  available  form 
of  oflScial  Lynch  Law,  were  made  impossible  by  the 
jealousy  of  the  "loyal"  (.to  England)  Egyptians,  who, 
it  seems,  rule  the  Occupation  and  bully  England  exactly 
as  the  "  loyal  "  Irish  rule  the  Garrison  and  bully  the 
Unionists  nearer  home.  That  kind  of  loyalty,  not  being 
a  natural  product,  has  to  be  purchased;  and  the  price 
is  an  official  job  of  some  sort  with  a  position  and  a 
salary  attached.  Hence  we  got,  in  1895,  a  tribunal  con- 
stituted in  which  three  English  officials  sat  with  two 
Egyptian  officials,  exercising  practically  unlimited 
powers  of  punishment  without  a  jury  and  without  ap- 
peal.    They  represent  the  best  of  our  judicial  and  mill- 


liv  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

tary  officialism.     And  what  that  best  is  may  be  judged 
by  the  sentences  on  the  Denshawai  villagers. 

Lord  Cromer's  justification  of  the  tribunal  is  prac- 
tically that,  bad  as  it  is,  the  Brigandage  Commissions 
were  worse.  Also  (lest  we  should  propose  to  carry  our 
moral  superiority  any  further),  that  the  Egyptians  are 
so  accustomed  to  associate  law  and  order  with  floggings, 
executions,  torture  and  Lynch  Law,  that  they  will  not 
respect  any  tribunal  which  does  not  continue  these  prac- 
tices. This  is  a  far-reaching  argument:  for  instance,  it 
suggests  that  Church  of  England  missionaries  might  do 
well  to  adopt  the  rite  of  human  sacrifice  when  evangeliz- 
ing tribes  in  whose  imagination  that  practice  is  insep- 
arably bound  up  with  religion.  It  suggests  that  the 
sole  reason  why  the  Denshawai  tribunal  did  not  resort 
to  torture  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  confessions  and 
evidence  was  that  parliament  miglit  not  stand  it — though 
really  a  parliament  which  stood  the  executions  would, 
one  would  think,  stand  anything.  The  tribunal  had  cer- 
tainly no  intention  of  allowing  witnesses  to  testify 
against  British  officers;  for,  as  it  happened,  the  Ombashi 
who  accompanied  them  on  the  two  shooting  expeditions, 
one  Ahmed  Hassan  Zakzouk,  aged  26,  was  rash  enough 
to  insist  that  after  the  shot  that  struck  the  woman,  the 
officers  fired  on  the  mob  twice.  This  appears  in  the 
parliamentary  paper;  but  the  French  newspaper 
L'Egypte  is  quoted  by  Mr.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  as 
reporting  that  Zakzouk,  on  being  asked  by  one  of  the 
English  judges  whether  he  was  not  afraid  to  say  such 
a  thing,  replied  "  Nobody  in  the  world  is  able  to  frighten 
me:  the  truth  is  the  truth,"  and  was  promptly  told  to 
stand  down.  Mr.  Blunt  adds  that  Zakzouk  was  then 
tried  for  his  conduct  in  connection  with  the  affair  before 
a  Court  of  Discipline,  which  awarded  him  two  years 
imprisonment  and  fifty  lashes.  Without  rudely  calling 
this  a  use  of  torture  to  intimidate  anti-British  witnesses, 
I   may  count  on  the  assent  of  mpst  reasonable  people 


Preface  for  Politicians  Iv 

when  I  say  that  Zakzouk  probably  regards  himself  as 
having  received  a  rather  strong  hint  to  make  his  evidence 
agreeable  to  the  Occupation  in  future. 

Not  only  was  there  of  course  no  jury  at  the  trial,  but 
considerably  less  than  no  defence.  Barristers  of  suffi- 
cient standing  to  make  it  very  undesirable  for  them  to 
offend  the  Occupation  were  instructed  to  "  defend  "  the 
prisoners.  Far  from  defending  them,  they  paid  high 
compliments  to  the  Occupation  as  one  of  the  choicest 
benefits  rained  by  Heaven  on  their  country,  and  appealed 
for  mercy  for  their  miserable  clients,  whose  conduct  had 
"  caused  the  unanimous  indignation  of  all  Egyptians." 
"  Clemency,"  they  said,  "  was  above  equity."  The  tri- 
bunal in  delivering  judgment  remarked  that  "the  coun- 
sel for  the  defence  had  a  full  hearing:  nevertheless  the 
defence  broke  down  completely,  and  all  that  their  coun- 
sel could  say  on  behalf  of  the  prisoners  practically 
amounted  to  an  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  the  Court." 

Now  the  proper  defence,  if  put  forward,  would  prob- 
ably have  convinced  Lord  Cromer  that  nothing  but  the 
burning  of  the  village  and  the  crucifixion  of  all  its  in- 
habitants could  preserve  the  British  Empire.  That  de- 
fence was  obvious  enough:  the  village  was  invaded  by 
five  armed  foreigners  who  attempted  for  the  second  time 
to  slaughter  the  villagers'  farming  stock  and  carry  it 
off;  in  resisting  an  attempt  to  disarm  them  four  villagers 
had  been  wounded;  the  villagers  had  lost  their  tempers 
and  knocked  the  invaders  about;  and  the  older  men  and 
watchmen  had  finally  rescued  the  aggressors  and  sent 
them  back  with  no  worse  handling  than  they  would  have 
got  anywhere  for  the  like  misconduct. 

One  can  imagine  what  would  have  happened  to  the 
man,  prisoner  or  advocate,  who  should  have  dared  to 
tell  the  trutli  in  this  fashion.  The  prisoners  knew  better 
than  to  attempt  it.  On  the  scaffold,  Darweesh  turned  to 
his  house  as  he  stood  on  the  trap,  and  exclaimed  "  May 
God  compensate  us  well  for  this  world  of  meanness,  for 


Ivi  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

this  world  of  injustice,  for  this  world  of  cruelty."  If 
he  had  dared  in  court  thus  to  compare  God  with  the 
tribunal  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter^  he  would  no 
doubt  have  had  fifty  lashes  before  his  hanging,  to  teach 
him  the  greatness  of  the  Empire.  As  it  was,  he  kept 
his  views  to  himself  until  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything 
worse  to  him  than  hang  him.  In  court,  he  did  as  all 
the  rest  did.  They  lied;  they  denied;  they  set  up  des- 
perate alibis;  they  protested  they  had  been  in  the  next 
village,  or  tending  cattle  a  mile  off,  or  threshing,  or 
what  not.  One  of  them,  when  identified,  said  "  All  men 
are  alike."  He  had  only  one  eye.  Darweesh,  who  had 
secured  one  of  the  officers'  guns,  declared  that  his  ene- 
mies had  come  in  the  night  and  buried  it  in  his  house, 
where  his  mother  sat  on  it,  like  Rachel  on  Laban's  stolen 
teraphim,  until  she  was  dragged  off.  A  pitiable  business, 
yet  not  so  pitiable  as  the  virtuous  indignation  with  which 
Judge  Lynch,  himself  provable  by  his  own  reports  to 
be  a  prevaricator,  hypocrite,  tyrant  and  coward  of  the 
first  water,  preened  himself  at  its  expense.  When  Lord 
Cromer  says  that  "  the  prisoners  had  a  perfectly  fair 
trial  " — not,  observe,  a  trial  as  little  unfair  as  human 
frailty  could  make  it,  which  is  the  most  that  can  be  said 
for  any  trial  on  earth,  but  "  a  perfectly  fair  trial  " — he 
no  doubt  believes  what  he  says;  but  his  opinion  is  inter- 
esting mainly  as  an  example  of  the  state  of  his  mind, 
and  of  the  extent  to  which,  after  thirty  years  of  official 
life  in  Egypt,  one  loses  the  plain  sense  of  English  words. 
Lord  Cromer  recalls  how,  in  the  eighties,  a  man  threat- 
ened with  the  courbash  by  a  Moudir  in  the  presence  of 
Sir  Claude  MacDonald,  said  "  You  dare  not  flog  me 
now  that  the  British  are  here."  "  So  bold  an  answer," 
says  Lord  Cromer,  "  was  probably  due  to  the  presence 
of  a  British  officer."  What  would  that  man  say  now.'' 
\Miat  does  Lord  Cromer  say  now.''  He  deprecates 
"  premature  endeavors  to  thrust  Western  ideas  on  an 
Eastern  people,"  by  which  he  means  that  when  you  are 


Preface  for  Politicians  Ivii 

in  Egypt  you  must  do  as  the  Egyptians  do:  terrorize 
by  the  lash  and  the  scaffold.  Thus  does  the  East  con- 
quer its  conquerors.  In  1883  Lord  DufFerin  was  abol- 
ishing the  bastinado  as  "  a  horrible  and  infamous  pun- 
ishment." In  1906  Lord  Cromer  guarantees  ferocious 
sentences  of  flogging  as  "just  and  necessary,"  and  can 
see  "  nothing  reprehensible  in  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  carried  out."  "  I  have,"  he  adds,  "  passed  nearly 
thirty  years  of  my  life  in  an  earnest  endeavour  to  raise 
the  moral  and  material  condition  of  the  people  of  Egypt. 
I  have  been  assisted  by  a  number  of  very  capable  offi- 
cials, all  of  whom,  I  may  say,  have  been  animated  by 
the  same  spirit  as  myself."  Egypt  may  well  shudder 
as  she  reads  those  words.  If  the  first  thirty  years  have 
been  crowned  by  the  Denshawai  incident,  what  will 
Egypt  be  like  at  the  end  of  another  thirty  years  of 
moral  elevation  "animated  by  the  same  spirit"? 

It  is  pleasanter  to  return  to  Lord  Cromer's  first  letter 
on  Denshawai,  written  to  Sir  Edward  Grey  the  day  after 
the  shooting  party.  It  says  that  "  orders  will  shortly 
be  issued  by  the  General  prohibiting  officers  in  the  army 
from  shooting  pigeons  in  the  future  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever."  But  pray  why  this  prohibition,  if, 
as  the  tribunal  declared,  the  officers  were  "  guests  (actu- 
ally guests!)  who  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  blame  "? 

Mr.  Findlay  is  another  interesting  official  correspond- 
ent of  Sir  Edward.  Even  after  the  trial,  at  which  it 
had  been  impossible  to  push  the  medical  evidence  further 
than  to  say  that  the  officer  who  died  of  sunstroke  had 
been  predisposed  to  it  by  the  knocking  about  he  had 
suffered  and  by  his  flight  under  the  Egyptian  sun,  whilst 
the  officers  who  had  remained  defenceless  in  the  hands 
of  the  villagers  were  in  court,  alive  and  well,  Mr.  Find- 
lay  writes  that  the  four  hanged  men  were  "  convicted 
of  a  brutal  and  premeditated  murder,"  and  complains 
that  "  the  native  press  disregards  the  fact "  and  "  is 
being   conducted   with   such   an   absolute   disregard   for 


Iviii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

truth  as  to  make  it  evident  that  large  sums  of  money 
have  been  expended."  Mr.  Findlay  is  also  a  bit  of  a 
philosopher.  "  The  Egyptian,  being  a  fatalist/'  he  says, 
"  does  not  greatly  fear  death,  and  there  is  therefore 
much  to  be  said  for  flogging  as  a  judicial  punishment  in 
Egypt."  Logically,  then,  the  four  hanged  men  ought 
to  have  been  flogged  instead.  But  Mr.  Findlay  does  not 
draw  that  conclusion.  Logic  is  not  his  strong  point: 
he  is  a  man  of  feeling,  and  a  very  nervous  one  at  that. 
"  I  do  not  believe  that  this  brutal  attack  on  British 
officers  had  anything  directly  to  do  with  political  ani- 
mosity. It  is,  however,  due  to  the  insubordinate  spirit 
which  has  been  sedulously  fostered  during  the  last  year 
by  unscrupulous  and  interested  agitators."  Again,  "  it 
is  my  duty  to  warn  you  of  the  deplorable  eff'ect  which 
is  being  produced  in  Egypt  by  the  fact  that  Members  of 
Parliament  have  seriously  called  in  question  the  unani- 
mous sentence  passed  by  a  legally  constituted  Court,  of 
which  the  best  English  and  the  best  native  Judge  were 
members.  This  fact  will,  moreover,  supply  the  lever 
which  has,  up  to  the  present,  been  lacking  to  the  venal 
agitators  who  are  at  the  head  of  the  so-called  patriotic 
party."  I  find  Mr.  Findlay  irresistible,  so  exquisitely 
does  he  give  us  the  measure  and  flavor  of  officialism. 
"  A  few  days  after  the  Denshawai  aff"ray  some  natives 
stoned  and  severely  injured  an  irrigation  inspector.  Two 
days  ago  three  natives  knocked  a  soldier  off  his  donkey 
and  kicked  him  in  the  stomach:  his  injuries  are  serious. 
In  the  latter  case  theft  appears  to  have  been  the  motive. 
My  object  in  mentioning  these  instances  is  to  shew  the 
results  to  be  expected  if  once  respect  for  the  law  is 
shaken.  Should  the  present  state  of  things  continue, 
and,  still  more,  should  the  agitation  in  this  country  find 
support  at  home,  the  date  is  not  far  distant  when  the 
necessity  will  arise  for  bringing  in  a  press  law  and  for 
considerably  increasing  the  army  of  occupation."  Just 
think  of  it!    In  a  population  of  nearly  ten  millions,  one 


Preface  for  Politicians  lix 

irrigation  inspector  is  stoned.  The  Denshawai  execu- 
tions are  then  carried  out  to  make  the  law  respected. 
The  result  is  that  three  natives  knock  a  soldier  off  his 
donkey  and  rob  him.  Thereupon  Mr.  Findlay,  appalled 
at  the  bankruptcy  of  civilization,  sees  nothing  for  it 
now  but  suppression  of  the  native  newspapers  and  a 
considerable  increase  in  the  army  of  occupation !  And 
Lord  Cromer  writes  "  All  I  need  say  is  that  I  concur 
generally  in  Mr.  Findlay's  remarks,  and  that,  had  I  re- 
mained in  Egypt,  I  should  in  every  respect  have  adopted 
the  same  course  as  that  which  he  pursued." 

But  I  must  resolutely  shut  this  rich  parliamentary 
paper.  I  have  extracted  enough  to  paint  the  picture, 
and  enforce  my  warning  to  England  that  if  her  Empire 
means  ruling  the  world  as  Denshawai  has  been  ruled  in 
1906 — and  that,  I  am  afraid,  is  what  the  Empire  does 
mean  to  the  main  body  of  our  aristocratic-military  caste 
and  to  our  Jingo  plutocrats — then  there  can  be  no  more 
sacred  and  urgent  political  duty  on  earth  than  the  dis- 
ruption, defeat,  and  suppression  of  the  Empire,  and, 
incidentally,  the  humanization  of  its  supporters  by  the 
sternest  lessons  of  that  adversity  which  comes  finally  to 
institutions  which  make  themselves  abhorred  by  the  as- 
piring will  of  humanity  towards  divinity.  As  for  the 
Egyptians,  any  man  cradled  by  the  Nile  who,  after  the 
Denshawai  incident,  will  ever  voluntarily  submit  to  Brit- 
ish rule,  or  accept  any  bond  vpith  us  except  the  bond  of 
a  Federation  of  free  and  equal  states,  will  deserve  the 
worst  that  Lord  Cromer  can  consider  "  just  and  neces- 
sary "  for  him.  That  is  what  you  get  by  attempting  to 
prove  your  supremacy  by  the  excesses  of  frightened 
soldiers  and  denaturalized  officials  instead  of  by  courage- 
ous helpfulness  and  moral  superiority. 

In  any  case  let  no  Englishman  who  is  content  to  leave 
Abd-el-Nebi  and  his  twenty-year-old  neighbor  in  penal 
servitude  for  life,  and  to  plume  himself  on  the  power 
to  do  it,  pretend  to  be  fit  to  govern  either  my  country 


Ix  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

or  his  own.  The  responsibilitj'  cannot  be  confined  to 
the  tribunal  and  to  the  demoralized  officials  of  the  Occu- 
pation. The  House  of  Commons  had  twenty-four  hours 
clear  notice,  with  the  telegraph  under  the  hand  of  Sir 
Edward  Grey,  to  enable  it  to  declare  that  England  was 
a  civilized  Power  and  would  not  stand  these  barbarous 
lashings  and  vindictive  hangings.  Yet  Mr.  Dillon,  rep- 
resenting the  Irish  party,  which  well  knows  what  British 
Occupations  and  Findlay  "  loyalism  "  mean,  protested  in 
vain.  Sir  Edward,  on  behalf  of  the  new  Liberal  Gov- 
ernment (still  simmering  with  virtuous  indignation  at 
the  flogging  of  Chinamen  and  the  military  executions  in 
South  Africa  in  the  forced  presence  of  the  victims' 
families  under  the  late  Imperialist  Government)  not 
only  permitted  and  defended  the  Denshawai  executions, 
but  appealed  to  the  House  almost  passionately  not  to 
criticize  or  repudiate  them,  on  the  ground — how  incred- 
ible it  now  appears !  —  that  Abd-el-Xebi  and  Hassan 
Mahfouz  and  Uarweesh  and  the  rest  were  the  fuglemen 
of  a  gigantic  Moslem  plot  to  rise  against  Christendom 
in  the  name  of  the  Prophet  and  sweep  Christendom  out 
of  Africa  and  Asia  by  a  colossal  second  edition  of  the 
Indian  Mutiny.  That  this  idiotic  romance,  gross  and 
ridiculous  as  the  lies  of  FalstafF,  should  have  imposed 
on  any  intelligent  and  politically  experienced  human  be- 
ing, is  strange  enough — though  the  secret  shame  of  re- 
volted humanity  will  make  cabinet  ministers  snatch  at 
fantastic  excuses — but  what  humanity  will  not  forgive 
our  foreign  secretary  for  is  his  failure  to  see  that  even 
if  such  a  conspiracy  really  existed,  England  should  have 
faced  it  and  fought  it  bravely  by  honorable  means,  in- 
stead of  wildly  lashing  and  strangling  a  handful  of  poor 
peasants  to  scare  Islam  into  terrified  submission.  Were 
I  abject  enough  to  grant  to  Sir  Edward  Grey  as  valid 
that  main  asset  of  "  thinking  Imperially,"  the  conviction 
that  we  are  all  going  to  be  murdered,  I  should  still 
suggest  to  him  that  we  can  at  least  die  like  gentlemen.'* 


Preface  for  Politicians  Ixi 

Might  I  even  be  so  personal  as  to  say  that  the  reason 
for  giving  him  a  social  position  and  political  opportuni- 
ties that  are  denied  to  liis  tradesmen  is  that  he  is  sup- 
posed to  understand  better  than  they  that  honor  is  worth 
its  danger  and  its  cost,  and  that  life  is  worthless  Avithout 
honor?  It  is  true  that  Sir  John  FalstafF  did  not  think 
so ;  but  Sir  John  is  hardly  a  model  for  Sir  Edward.  Yet 
even  Sir  John  would  have  had  enough  gumption  to  see 
that  the  Denshawai  panic  was  more  dangerous  to  the 
Empire  than  the  loss  of  ten  pitched  battles. 

As  cowardice  is  highly  infectious,  would  it  not  be  de- 
sirable to  supersede  officials  who,  after  years  of  oriental 
service,  have  lost  the  familiar  art  of  concealing  their 
terrors?  I  am  myself  a  sedentary  literary  civilian,  con- 
stitutionally timid;  but  I  find  it  possible  to  keep  up 
appearances,  and  can  even  face  the  risk  of  being  rim 
over,  or  garotted,  or  burnt  out  in  London  without  shriek- 
ing for  martial  law,  suppression  of  the  newspapers,  ex- 
emplary flogging  and  hanging  of  motor-bus  drivers,  and 
compulsory  police  service.  Why  are  soldiers  and  officials 
on  foreign  service  so  much  more  cowardly  than  citizens  ? 
Is  it  not  clearlj^  because  the  whole  Imperial  military  sys- 
tem of  coercion  and  terrorism  is  unnatural,  and  that  the 
truth  formulated  by  William  Morris,  that  "  no  man  is 
good  enough  to  be  another  man's  master  "  is  true  also 
of  nations,  and  very  specially  true  of  those  plutocrat- 
ridden  Powers  which  have  of  late  stumbled  into  an  enor- 
mous increase  of  material  wealth  without  having  made 
any  intelligent  provision  for  its  proper  distribution  and 
administration  ? 

However,  the  economic  reform  of  the  Empire  is  a 
long  business,  whereas  the  release  of  Abd-el-Nebi  and 
his  neighbors  is  a  matter  of  the  stroke  of  a  pen,  once 
public  opinion  is  shamed  into  activity.  I  fear  I  have 
stated  their  case  very  unfairly  and  inadequately,  because 
I  am  hampered,  as  an  Irishman,  by  my  implacable  hos- 
tility   to    English    domination.      Mistrusting    my    own 


Ixii  John  Bull's  Other  Island 

prejudices,  I  have  taken  the  story  from  the  two  parlia- 
mentary papers  in  which  our  officials  have  done  their 
utmost  to  whitewash  the  tribunals  and  the  pigeon-shoot- 
ing party,  and  to  blackwash  the  villagers.  Those  who 
wish  to  have  it  told  to  them  by  an  Englishman  of  un- 
questionable personal  and  social  credentials,  and  an  in- 
timate knowledge  of  Egypt  and  the  Egyptians,  can  find 
it  in  ISIr.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt's  pamphlet  entitled 
"  Atrocities  of  British  Rule  in  Egypt."  WTien  they  have 
read  it  they  will  appreciate  my  forbearance;  and  when 
I  add  that  English  rule  in  Ireland  has  been  "  animated 
by  the  same  spirit "  (I  thank  Lord  Cromer  for  the 
phrase)  as  English  rule  in  Egypt,  and  that  this  is  the 
inevitable  spirit  of  all  coercive  military  rule,  they  will 
perhaps  begin  to  understand  why  Home  Rule  is  a  neces- 
sity not  only  for  Ireland,  but  for  all  constituents  of 
those  Federations  of  Commonwealths  which  are  now  the 
only  permanently  practicable  form  of  Empire. 


John  Bull's  Other  Island 1 

How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband      .     .     127 
Major  Barbara 155 


JOHN    BULL'S   OTHER   ISLAND 


JOHN   BULL'S   OTHER   ISLAND 


ACT     I 

Great  George  Street,  Westminster,  is  the  address  of 
Doyle  and  Broadbent,  civil  engineers.  On  the  threshold 
one  reads  that  the  firm  consists  of  Mr.  Laurence  Doyle 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Broadbent,  and  that  their  rooms  are 
on  the  first  floor.  Most  of  these  rooms  are  private;  for 
the  partners,  being  bachelors  and  bosom  friends,  live 
there;  and  the  door  marked  Private,  next  the  clerks' 
office,  is  their  domestic  sitting  room  as  well  as  their  re- 
ception room  for  clients.  Let  me  describe  it  briefly 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  sparrow  on  the  window  sill. 
The  outer  door  is  in  the  opposite  wall,  close  to  the  right 
hand  corner.  Between  this  door  and  the  left  hand  cor- 
ner is  a  hatstand  and  a  table  consisting  of  large  drawing 
boards  on  trestles,  with  plans,  rolls  of  tracing  paper, 
mathematical  instruments  and  other  draughtsman's  ac- 
cessories on  it.  In  the  left  hand  wall  is  the  fireplace, 
and  the  door  of  an  inner  room  between  the  fireplace  and 
our  observant  sparrow.  Against  the  right  hand  wall 
is  a  filing  cabinet,  with  a  cupboard  on  it,  and,  nearer,  a 
tall  office  desk  and  stool  for  one  person.  In  the  middle 
of  the  room  a  large  double  writing  table  is  set  across, 
with  a  chair  at  each  end  for  the  two  partners.  It  is  a 
room  Tvhich  no  woman  would  tolerate,  smelling  of  to- 
bacco, and  much  in  need  of  repapering,  repainting,  and 
recarpeting;  but  this  is  the  effect  of  bachelor  untidiness 
and  indifference,  not  want  of  means;  for  nothing  that 
Doyle  and  Broadbent  themselves  have  purchased  is 
3 


4'',  .J^iliiti..  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  I 

/cfif^kp,;  not'  U  'anything  fhey  want  lackhig.  On  the  walls 
hang  rt  Idrg'e 'map  'of' South  America,  a  pictorial  adver- 
tisement of  a  steamship  company,  an  impressive  portrait 
of  Gladstone,  and  several  caricatures  of  Mr.  Balfour  as 
a  rabbit  and  Mr.  Chamberlain  as  a  fox  by  Francis  Car- 
rut  hers  Gould. 

At  trventy  minutes  to  five  o'clock  on  a  summer  after- 
noon in  IQOl,  the  room  is  empty.  Presently  the  outer 
door  is  opened,  and  a  valet  comes  in  laden  with  a  large 
Gladstone  bag,  and  a  strap  of  rugs.  He  carries  them 
into  the  inner  room.  He  is  a  respectable  valet,  old 
enough  to  have  lost  all  alacrity,  and  acquired  an  air  of 
putting  up  patiently  with  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and 
indifferent  health.  The  luggage  belongs  to  Broadhent, 
who  enters  after  the  valet.  He  pulls  off  his  overcoat 
and  hangs  it  with  his  hat  on  the  stand.  Then  he  comes 
to  the  writing  table  and  looks  through  the  letters  which 
are  waiting  for  him.  He  is  a  robust,  full-blooded,  ener- 
getic man  in  the  prime  of  life,  sometimes  eager  and 
credulous,  sometimes  shrewd  and  roguish,  sometimes 
portentously  solemn,  sometimes  jolly  and  impetuous,  al- 
ways buoyant  and  irresistible,  mostly  likeable,  and  enor- 
mously absurd  in  his  most  earnest  moments.  He  bursts 
open  his  letters  with  his  thumb,  and  glances  through 
them,  flinging  the  envelopes  about  the  floor  with  reck- 
less untidiness  whilst  he  talks  to  the  valet. 

Broadbent  (calling).     Hodson. 

HoDSON  (in  the  bedroom).     Yes  sir. 

Broadbent.  Dont  unpack.  Just  take  out  the  things 
Ive  worn ;  and  put  in  clean  things. 

Hodson  (appearing  at  the  bedroom  door).  Yes  sir. 
(He  turns  to  go  back  into  the  bedroom.) 

Broadbent.  And  look  here!  (Hodson  turns  again.) 
Do  you  remember  where  I  put  my  revolver.'' 

Hodson.  Revolver,  sir?  Yes  sir.  Mr.  Doyle  uses 
it  as  a  paper-weight,  sir,  when  he's  drawing. 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  5 

Bro'adbent.  Well,  I  want  it  packed.  Tlieres  a 
packet  of  cartridges  somewhere,  I  think.  Find  it  and 
pack  it  as  well. 

HoDSON.     Yes  sir. 

Broadbent.  By  the  way,  pack  your  own  traps  too. 
I  shall  take  you  with  me  this  time. 

HoDsoN  {hesitant).  Is  it  a  dangerous  part  youre 
going  to,  sir.''  Should  I  be  expected  to  carry  a  revolver, 
sir? 

Broadbent.  Perhaps  it  might  be  as  well.  I'm  go- 
ing to   Ireland. 

HoDsoN   (reassured).     Yes  sir. 

Broadbent.  You  dont  feel  nervous  about  it,  I  sup- 
pose ? 

HoDsoN.     Not  at  all,  sir.     I'll  risk  it,  sir. 

Broadbent.     Have  3'ou  ever  been  in  Ireland? 

HoDsoN.  No  sir.  I  understand  it's  a  very  wet  cli- 
mate, sir.     I'd  better  pack  your  india-rubber  overalls. 

Broadbent.      Do.     Wheres   Mr.   Doyle? 

HoDSON.  I'm  expecting  him  at  five,  sir.  He  went 
out  after  lunch. 

Broadbent.     Anybody  been  looking  for  me? 

HoDSON.  A  person  giving  the  name  of  Haffigan  has 
called  twice  to-day,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Oh,  I'm  sorry.  Why  didnt  he  wait?  I 
told  him  to  wait  if  I  wasnt  in. 

Hodson.  Well  sir,  I  didnt  know  you  expected  him; 
so  I  thought  it  best  to — to — not  to  encourage  him,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Oh,  lies  all  right.  Hes  an  Irishman, 
and  not  very  particular  about  his  aj^pearance. 

Hodson.     Yes  sir,  I  noticed  that  he  was  rather  Irish. 

Broadbent.     If  he  calls  again  let  him  come  up. 

Hodson.  I  think  I  saw  him  waiting  about,  sir,  when 
you  drove  up.     Shall  I  fetch  him,  sir? 

Broadbent.     Do,  Hodson. 

Hodson.     Yes  sir.     (He  makes  for  the  outer  door.) 

Broadbent.     He'll  want  tea.     Let  us  have  some. 


G  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

HoDSON  (stopping).  I  shouldn't  think  he  drank  tea, 
sir. 

Broadbent.  Well,  bring  whatever  you  think  he'd 
like. 

HoDSON.  Yes  sir.  (An  electric  bell  rings.)  Here 
he  is,  sir.     Saw  you  arrive,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Right.  Shew  him  in.  (Hodson  goes 
out.  Broadbent  gets  through  the  rest  of  his  letters  be- 
fore Hodson  returns  rvith  the  visitor.) 

Hodson.     Mr.  Affigan. 

Haffigan  is  a  stunted,  shortneched,  smallheaded,  red- 
haired  man  of  about  30,  with  reddened  nose  and  furtive 
eyes.  He  is  dressed  in  seedy  black,  almost  clerically, 
and  7night  be  a  tenth-rate  schoolmaster  ruined  by  drink. 
He  hastens  to  shake  Broadbent's  hand  with  a  show  of 
reckless  geniality  and  high  spirits,  helped  out  by  a  rol- 
licking stage  brogue.  This  is  perhaps  a  comfort  to 
himself,  as  he  is  secretly  pursued  by  the  horrors  of  in- 
cipient  delirium   tremens. 

Haffigan.  Tim  Haffigan,  sir,  at  your  service.  The 
top  o  the  mornin  to  you,  IMisther  Broadbent. 

Broadbent  (delighted  with  his  Irish  visitor).  Good 
afternoon,  Mr.  Haffigan. 

TiJi.  An  is  it  the  afthernoon  it  is  already.''  Begorra, 
what  I  call  the  mornin  is  all  the  time  a  man  fasts  afther 
breakfast. 

Broadbent.     Havnt  you  lunched? 

Tim.     Divil  a  lunch ! 

Broadbent.  I'm  sorry  I  couldnt  get  back  from 
Brighton  in  time  to  offer  you  some;  but — 

Tim.  Not  a  word,  sir,  not  a  word.  Sure  itll  do  to- 
morrow. Besides,  I'm  Irish,  sir:  a  poor  ather,  but  a 
powerful   dhrinker. 

Broadbent.  I  was  just  about  to  ring  for  tea  when 
you  came.     Sit  down,  Mr.  Haffigan. 

Tim.  Tay  is  a  good  dhrink  if  your  nerves  can  stand 
it.     Mhic  cant. 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  7 

Haffigan  sits  down  at  the  writing  table,  with  his  back 
to  the  filing  cabinet.  Broadbent  sits  opposite  him.  Hod- 
son  enters  emptyhanded;  takes  two  glasses,  a  siphon, 
and  a  tantalus  from  the  cupboard;  places  them  before 
Broadbent  on  the  writing  table;  looks  ruthlessly  at 
Haffigan,  who  cannot  meet  his  eye;  and  retires. 

Broadbent.     Try  a  whisky  and  soda. 

Tim  (sobered).  There  you  touch  the  national  wake- 
ness,  sir.  (Piously.)  Not  that  I  share  it  meself.  Ive 
seen  too  much  of  the  mischief  of  it. 

Broadbent  (pouring  the  whisky).     Say  when. 

Tim.  Not  too  sthrong.  (Broadbent  stops  and  looks 
enquiringly  at  him.)  Say  half-an-half.  (Broadbent, 
somewhat  startled  by  this  demand,  pours  a  little  more, 
and  again  stops  and  looks.)  Just  a  dhrain  more:  the 
lower  half  o  the  tumbler  doesnt  hold  a  fair  half. 
Thankya. 

Broadbent  (laughing).  You  Irishmen  certainly  do 
know  how  to  drink.  (Pouring  some  whisky  for  him- 
self.) Now  thats  my  poor  English  idea  of  a  whisky 
and  soda. 

Tim.  An  a  very  good  idea  it  is  too.  Dhrink  is  the 
curse  o  me  unhappy  counthry.  I  take  it  meself  because 
Ive  a  wake  heart  and  a  poor  digestion;  but  in  principle 
I'm  a  teetoatler. 

Broadbent  (suddenly  solemn  and  strenuous).  So 
am  I,  of  course.  I'm  a  Local  Optionist  to  the  backbone. 
You  have  no  idea,  Mr.  Haffigan,  of  the  ruin  that  is 
wrought  in  this  country  by  the  unholy  alliance  of  the 
publicans,  the  bishops,  the  Tories,  and  The  Times.  We 
must  close  the  public-houses  at  all  costs   (he  drinks). 

Tim.  Sure  I  know.  Its  awful  (he  drinks).  I  see 
youre  a  good  Liberal  like  meself,  sir. 

Broadbent.  I  am  a  lover  of  liberty,  like  every  true 
Englishman,  Mr.  Haffigan.  My  name  is  Broadbent.  If 
my  name  were  Breitstein,  and  I  had  a  hooked  nose  and 
a  house  in   Park  Lane,  I  should  carry  a  Union  Jack 


8  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  I 

handkerchief  and  a  penny  trumpet,  and  tax  the  food  of 
the  people  to  support  the  Navy  League,  and  clamor  for 
the  destruction  of  the  last  remnants  of  national  liberty — 

Tim.     Not  another  word.     Shake  hands. 

Broadbent.     But  I  should  like  to  explain — 

Tim.  Sure  I  know  every  word  youre  goin  to  say  be- 
fore yev  said  it.  I  know  the  sort  o  man  yar.  An  so 
youre  thinkin  o  comin  to  Ireland  for  a  bit.'' 

Broadbext.  Where  else  can  I  go?  I  am  an  Eng- 
lishman and  a  Liberal;  and  now  that  South  Africa  has 
been  enslaved  and  destroyed,  there  is  no  country  left  to 
me  to  take  an  interest  in  but  Ireland.  Mind:  I  dont 
say  that  an  Englishman  has  not  other  duties.  He  has  a 
duty  to  Finland  and  a  duty  to  Macedonia.  But  what 
sane  man  can  deny  that  an  Englishman's  first  duty  is 
his  duty  to  Ireland?  Unfortunately,  we  have  politicians 
here  more  unscrupulous  than  BobrikofF,  more  blood- 
thirsty than  Abdul  the  Damned;  and  it  is  under  their 
heel  that  Ireland  is  now  writhing. 

Tim.  Faith,  theyve  reckoned  up  with  poor  oul  Bobri- 
kofF anyhow. 

Broadbent.  Not  that  I  defend  assassination:  God 
forbid !  However  strongly  we  may  feel  that  the  un- 
fortunate and  patriotic  young  man  who  avenged  the 
wrongs  of  Finland  on  the  Russian  tyrant  was  perfectly 
right  from  his  own  point  of  view,  yet  every  civilized 
man  must  regard  murder  with  abhorrence.  Not  even 
in  defence  of  Free  Trade  would  I  lift  my  hand  against 
a  political  opponent,  however  richly  he  might  deserve  it. 

Tim.  Im  sure  you  wouldnt;  and  I  honor  you  for  it. 
Youre  goin  to  Ireland,  then,  out  o  sympithy:  is  it? 

Broadbent.  I'm  going  to  develop  an  estate  there 
for  the  Land  Development  Syndicate,  in  which  I  am 
interested.  I  am  convinced  that  all  it  needs  to  make  it 
pay  is  to  handle  it  properly,  as  estates  are  handled  in 
England.  You  know  the  English  plan,  Mr.  Haffigan, 
dont  you? 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  9 

Tim.  Bedad  I  do,  sir.  Take  all  you  can  out  of  Ire- 
land and  spend  it  in  England:  thats  it. 

Broadeent  (not  quite  liking  this).  My  plan,  sir,  will 
be  to  take  a  little  money  out  of  England  and  spend  it 
in   Ireland. 

Tim.  JNIore  power  to  your  elbow !  an  may  your  shadda 
never  be  less !  for  youre  the  broth  of  a  boy  intirely. 
An  how  can  I  help  you.^  Command  me  to  the  last 
dhrop  o  me  blood, 

Broadbent.     Have  you  ever  heard  of  Garden  City? 

Tim   (doubtfully).     D'j^e  mane  Heavn? 

Broadbent.  Heaven!  No:  it's  near  Hitchin.  If  you 
can  spare  half  an  hour  I'll  go  into  it  with  you. 

Tim.  I  tell  you  hwat.  Gimme  a  prospectus.  Lemme 
take  it  home  and  reflect  on  it. 

Broadbent.  Youre  quite  right:  I  will.  (He  gives 
him  a  copy  of  Mr.  Ehenezer  Howard's  hook,  and  several 
pamphlets.)  You  understand  that  the  map  of  the  city 
— the  circular  construction — is  only  a  suggestion. 

Tim.  I'll  make  a  careful  note  o  that  (looking  dazedly 
at  the  map). 

Broadbent.  What  I  say  is,  why  not  start  a  Garden 
City  in  Ireland? 

Tim  (with  enthusiasm) .  Thats  just  what  was  on  the 
tip  o  me  tongue  to  ask  you.  Why  not?  (Defiantly.) 
Tell  me  why  not. 

Broadbent.  There  are  difficulties.  I  shall  overcome 
them;  but  there  are  difficulties.  When  I  first  arrive  in 
Ireland  I  shall  be  hated  as  an  Englishman.  As  a 
Protestant,  I  shall  be  denounced  from  every  altar.  My 
life  may  be  in  danger.  Well,  I  am  prepared  to  face 
that. 

Tim.  Never  fear,  sir.  We  know  how  to  respict  a 
brave  innimy. 

Broadbent.  What  I  really  dread  is  misunderstand- 
ing. I  think  you  could  help  me  to  avoid  that.  When  I 
heard  you   speak  the   other   evening  in   Bermondsey   at 


10  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

the  meeting  of  the  National  League,  I  saw  at  once  tliat 
you  were — You  wont  mind  my  speaking  frankly? 

Tim.  Tell  me  all  me  faults  as  man  to  man.  I  can 
stand  anything  but  flatthery. 

Broadbext.  May  I  jjut  it  in  this  way? — that  I  saw 
at  once  that  you  were  a  thorough  Irishman,  with  all  the 
faults  and  all  the  qualities  of  your  race:  rash  and  iui- 
provident  but  brave  and  goodnatured;  not  likely  to  suc- 
ceed in  business  on  your  own  account  perhaps,  but 
eloquent,  humorous,  a  lover  of  freedom,  and  a  true  fol- 
lower of  that  great  Englishman  Gladstone. 

Tim.  Spare  me  blushes.  I  mustnt  sit  here  to  be 
praised  to  me  face.  But  I  confess  to  the  goodnature: 
its  an  Irish  wakeness.  I'd  share  me  last  shillin  with  a 
friend. 

Broadbent.     I  feel  sure  you  would,  Mr.  HafBgan. 

Tim  {impulsively').  Damn  it!  call  me  Tim.  A  man 
that  talks  about  Ireland  as  you  do  may  call  me  any- 
tliing.  Gimme  a  howlt  o  that  whisky  bottle  {he  replen- 
ishes). 

Broadbent  {smiling  indulgently).  Well,  Tim,  will 
you  come  with  me  and  help  to  break  the  ice  between 
me  and  your  warmhearted,  impulsive  countrymen  ? 

Tim.  Will  I  come  to  ^ladagascar  or  Cochin  China 
wid  you?  Bedad  I'll  come  to  the  North  Pole  wid  you 
if  yll  pay  me  fare;  for  the  divil  a  shillin  I  have  to  buy 
a  third  class  ticket. 

Broadbent.  Ive  not  forgotten  that,  Tim.  We  must 
put  that  little  matter  on  a  solid  English  footing,  though 
the  rest  can  be  as  Irish  as  you  please.  You  must  come 
as  my — my — well,  I  hardly  know  what  to  call  it.  If 
we  call  you  my  agent,  they'll  shoot  you.  If  we  call  you 
a  bailiff,  theyll  duck  you  in  the  horsepond.  I  have  a 
secretary  already ;   and — 

Tim.  Then  M-e'll  call  him  the  Home  Secretary  and 
me  the  Irish  Secretary.     Eh? 

Broadbent   {laughing  industriously).    Capital.    Your 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  11 

Irish  wit  has  settled  the  first  difficulty.  Now  about 
your  salary — 

Tim,  a  salary,  is  it?  Sure  I'd  do  it  for  nothin,  only 
me  cloes  ud  disgrace  you;  and  I'd  be  dhriven  to  borra 
money  from  your  friends:  a  thing  thats  agin  me  nacher. 
But  I  wont  take  a  penny  more  than  a  hundherd  a  year. 
{He  looks  fvith  restless  cunning  at  Broadhent,  trying  to 
guess  how  far  he  may  go.) 

Broadbent.     If  that  will  satisfy  you — 

Tim  {more  than  reassured).  Why  shouldnt  it  satisfy 
me?  A  hundherd  a  year  is  twelve-pound  a  month,  isnt 
it? 

Broadbent.     No.     Eight  pound  six  and  eightpence. 

Tim.  Oh  murdher!  An  I'll  have  to  sind  five  timme 
poor  oul  mother  in  Ireland.  But  no  matther:  I  said  a 
hundherd;  and  what  I  said  I'll  stick  to,  if  I  have  to 
starve  for  it. 

Broadbent  {with  business  caution).  Well,  let  us 
say  twelve  pounds  for  the  first  month.  Afterwards,  we 
shall  see  how  we  get  on. 

Tim.  Youre  a  gentleman,  sir.  Whin  me  mother  turns 
up  her  toes,  you  shall  take  the  five  pounds  off";  for  your 
expinses  must  be  kep  down  wid  a  sthrong  hand;  an — 
{He  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Broadbent's  part- 
ner.) 

Mr.  Laurence  Doyle  is  a  man  of  36,  with  cold  grey 
eyes,  strained  nose,  fine  fastidious  lips,  critical  brows, 
clever  head,  rather  refined  and  goodlooking  on  the  whole, 
but  with  a  suggestion  of  thinshinnedness  and  dissatis- 
faction that  contrasts  strongly  with  Broadbent's  eupeptic 
jollity. 

He  comes  in  as  a  man  at  home  there,  but  on  seeing 
the  stranger  shrinks  at  once,  and  is  about  to  withdraw 
when  Broadbent  reassures  him.  He  then  comes  forward 
to  the  table,  between  the  two  others. 

Doyle   {retreating).     Youre  engaged. 

Broadbent.     Not  at  all,  not  at  all.     Come  in.     {To 


12  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

Tim.)  This  gentleman  is  a  friend  who  lives  with  me 
here:  my  partner,  Mr.  Doyle.  (To  Doyle.)  This  is  a 
new  Irish  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Tim  Haffigan. 

Tim  (rising  with  effusion).  Sure  its  meself  thats 
proud  to  meet  any  friend  o  Misther  Broadbent's.  The 
top  o  the  mornin  to  you,  sir !  Me  heart  goes  out  teeye 
both.  Its  not  often  I  meet  two  such  splendid  speci- 
ments  iv  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

Broadbent  (chuckling).  Wrong  for  once,  Tim.  My 
friend  Mr.  Doyle  is  a  countryman  of  yours. 

Tim  is  notii-3ably  dashed  by  this  announcement.  He 
draws  in  his  horns  at  once,  and  scowls  suspiciously  at 
Doyle  under  a  vanishing  mask  of  good  fellowship : 
cringing  a  little,  too,  in  mere  nerveless  fear  of  him. 

Doyle  (with  cool  disgust).  Good  evening.  (He  re- 
tires to  the  fireplace,  and  says  to  Broadbent  in  a  tone 
which  conveys  the  strongest  possible  hint  to  Haffigan 
that  he  is  unwelcome)  Will  you  soon  be  disengaged? 

Tim  (his  brogue  decaying  into  a  common  would-be 
genteel  accent  with  an  unexpected  strain  of  Glasgow  in 
it).  I  must  be  going.  Ivnmportnt  engeegement  in  the 
west  end. 

Broadbext  (rising).  It's  settled,  then,  that  you 
come  with  me. 

Tim.     Ishll  be  verra  pleased  to  accompany  ye,  sir. 

Broadbent.  But  how  soon?  Can  you  start  tonight 
— from  Piddington?     We  go  by  Milford  Haven. 

Tim  (hesitating).  Well  —  I'm  afreed  —  I  (Doyle 
goes  abruptly  into  the  bedroom,  slamming  the  door  and 
shattering  the  last  remnant  of  Tim's  nerve.  The  poor 
wretch  saves  himself  from  bursting  into  tears  by  plung- 
ing again  into  his  role  of  daredevil  Irishman.  He 
rushes  to  Broadbent;  plucks  at  his  sleeve  with  trembling 
fingers;  and  pours  forth  his  entreaty  with  all  the  brogue 
he  can  muster,  subduing  his  voice  lest  Doyle  should  hear 
and  return.)  Misther  Broadbent:  dont  humiliate  me 
before  a  fella  counthryman.     Look  here:  me  does  is  up 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  13 

the  spout.  Gimme  a  fypounnote — I'll  pay  ya  nex 
Choosda  whin  me  ship  comes  home — or  you  can  stop  it 
out  o  mc  montli's  sallery.  I'll  be  on  the  platform  at 
Paddnton  punctial  an  ready.  Gimme  it  quick,  before  he 
comes  back.     You  wont  mind  me  axin,  will  ye? 

Broadbent.  Not  at  all.  I  was  about  to  offer  you  an 
advance  for  travelling  expenses.  {He  gives  lihn  a  bank 
note.) 

Tim  {'pocketing  it).  Thank  you.  I'll  be  there  half 
an  hour  before  the  thrain  starts.  {Larry  is  heard  at 
the  bedroom  door,  returning.)  Whisht:  lies  comin  back. 
Goodbye  an  God  bless  ye.  {He  hurries  out  almost  cry- 
ing, the  £5  note  and  all  the  drink  it  means  to  him  being 
too  much  for  his  empty  stomach  and  overstrained 
nerves.) 

Doyle  {returning).  Where  the  devil  did  you  pick 
up  that  seedy  swindler?  What  was  he  doing  here? 
{He  goes  up  to  the  table  rvhere  the  plans  are,  and 
makes  a  note  on  one  of  them,  referring  to  his  pocket 
book  as  he  does  so.) 

Broadbent.  There  you  go !  Why  are  you  so  down 
on  every  Irishman  you  meet,  especially  if  hes  a  bit 
shabby  ?  poor  devil !  Surely  a  fellow-countryman  may 
pass  you  the  top  of  the  morning  without  offence,  even 
if  his  coat  is  a  bit  shiny  at  the  seams. 

Doyle  {contemptuously).  The  top  of  the  morning! 
Did  he  call  you  the  broth  of  a  boy?  {He  comes  to  the 
writing  table.) 

Broadbent   {triumphantly).     Yes. 

DoYLE.     And  wished  you  more  power  to  your  elbow? 

Broadbent.     He  did. 

DoYLE.  And  that  your  shadow  might  never  be 
less? 

Broadbent.     Certainly. 

Doyle  {taking  up  the  depleted  rvhisky  bottle  and 
shaking  his  head  at  it).  And  he  got  about  half  a  pint 
of  whisky  out  of  you. 


14  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

Broadbent.  It  did  him  no  harm.  He  never  turned 
a  hair. 

Doyle.     How  much  money  did  he  borrow.'' 

Broadbent.  It  was  not  borrowing  exactly.  He 
shewed  a  very  honorable  spirit  about  money.  I  believe 
he  would  share  his  last  shilling  with  a  friend. 

Doyle.  No  doubt  he  would  share  his  friend's  last 
shilling  if  his  friend  was  fool  enough  to  let  him.  How 
much  did  he  touch  you  for.'' 

Broadbent.  Oh,  nothing.  An  advance  on  his  salary 
— for  travelling  expenses. 

Doyle.     Salary!     In  Heaven's  name,  what  for? 

Broadbent.  For  being  my  Home  Secretary,  as  he 
very  wittily  called  it. 

Doyle.     I  dont  see  the  joke. 

Broadbent.  You  can  spoil  any  joke  by  being  cold 
blooded  about  it.  I  saw  it  all  right  when  he  said  it.  It 
was  something — something  really  very  amusing — about 
the  Home  Secretary  and  the  Irish  Secretary.  At 
all  events,  hes  evidently  the  very  man  to  take  with 
me  to  Ireland  to  break  the  ice  for  me.  He  can  gain 
the  confidence  of  the  people  there,  and  make  them 
friendly  to  me.  Eh.''  {He  seats  himself  on  the  office 
stool,  and  tilts  it  back  so  that  the  edge  of  the  stand- 
ing desk  supports  his  back  and  prevents  his  toppling 
over. ) 

Doyle.  A  nice  introduction,  by  George!  Do  you 
suppose  the  whole  population  of  Ireland  consists  of 
drunken  begging  letter  writers,  or  that  even  if  it  did, 
they  would  accept  one  another  as  references.'' 

Broadbent.  Pooh  !  nonsense !  hcs  only  an  Irishman. 
Besides,  you  dont  seriously  suppose  that  HaflBgan  can 
humbug  me,  do  you? 

Doyle.  No:  hes  too  lazy  to  take  the  trouble.  All 
he  has  to  do  is  to  sit  there  and  drink  your  whisky  while 
you  humbug  yourself.  However,  we  neednt  argue 
about  Haffigan,  for  two  reasons.    First,  with  your  money 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  15 

in  his  pocket  he  will  never  reach  Paddington:  there  are 
too  many  public  houses  on  the  way.  Second,  hes  not  an 
Irishman  at  all. 

Broadbent.  Not  an  Irishman !  {He  is  so  amazed 
hy  the  statement  that  he  straightens  himself  and  brings 
the  stool  bolt  upright.) 

Doyle.  Born  in  Glasgow.  Never  was  in  Ireland  in 
his  life.     I  know  all  about  him. 

Broadbent.  But  he  spoke — he  behaved  just  like  an 
Irishman. 

Doyle.  Like  an  Irishman ! !  Is  it  possible  that  you 
dont  know  that  all  this  top-o-the-morning  and  broth-of- 
a-boy  and  more-jDower-to-your-elbow  business  is  as 
peculiar  to  England  as  the  Albert  Hall  concerts  of 
Irish  music  are?  No  Irishman  ever  talks  like  that  in 
Ireland,  or  ever  did,  or  ever  will.  But  when  a  thor- 
oughly worthless  Irishman  comes  to  England,  and  finds 
tlie  whole  place  full  of  romantic  duffers  like  you,  who 
will  let  him  loaf  and  drink  and  sponge  and  brag  as 
long  as  he  flatters  your  sense  of  moral  superiority  by 
playing  the  fool  and  degrading  himself  and  his  coun- 
try, he  soon  learns  the  antics  that  take  you  in.  He 
picks  them  up  at  the  theatre  or  the  music  hall.  Haffigan 
learnt  the  rudiments  from  his  father,  who  came  from 
my  part  of  Ireland.  I  knew  his  uncles.  Matt  and  Andy 
Haffigan  of  Rosscullen. 

Broadbent  (still  incredulous).     But  his  brogue! 

Doyle.  His  brogue!  A  fat  lot  you  know  about 
brogues !  Ive  heard  you  call  a  Dublin  accent  that  you 
could  hang  your  hat  on,  a  brogue.  Heaven  help  you! 
you  dont  know  the  difference  between  Connemara  and 
Rathmines.  (With  violent  irritation.)  Oh,  damn  Tim 
Haffigan!  lets  drop  the  subject:  hes  not  worth  wrangling 
about. 

Broadbent.  Whats  wrong  with  you  today,  Larry? 
Why  are  you  so  bitter? 

Doyle  looks  at  him  perplej:edly;  comes  slowly  to  the 


16  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

rvriting  table;  and  sits  dorvn  at  the  end  next  the  fireplace 
before  replying. 

DovLE.  ^^'ell:  your  letter  completely  upset  me,  for 
one  thing. 

Broadbent,     Why? 

Larry.  Your  foreclosing  this  RosscuUen  mortgage 
and  turning  poor  Nick  Lestrange  out  of  house  and 
home  has  rather  taken  me  aback;  for  I  liked  the  old 
rascal  when  I  was  a  boy  and  had  the  rim  of  his  park 
to  play  in.     I  was  brought  up  on  the  property. 

Broadbext,  But  he  wouldnt  pay  the  interest.  I 
had  to  foreclose  on  behalf  of  the  Syndicate.  So  now 
I'm  off  to  RosscuUen  to  look  after  the  property  myself. 
(He  sits  down  at  the  rvriting  table  opposite  Larry,  and 
adds,  casually,  but  with  an  anxious  glance  at  his  part- 
ner.)    Youre  coming  with  me,  of  course? 

Doyle  (rising  nervously  and  recommencing  his  rest- 
less movements).  Thats  it.  Thats  what  I  dread.  Thats 
what  has  upset  me. 

Broadbent.  But  dont  you  want  to  see  your  country 
again  after  18  years  absence?  to  see  your  people?  to  be 
in  the  old  home  again?  to — 

Doyle  (interrupting  him  very  impatiently).  Yes, 
yes:  I  know  all  that  as  well  as  you  do. 

Broadbent.  Oh  well,  of  course  (rvith  a  shrug)  if 
you  take  it  in  that  way,  I'm  sorry. 

Doyle.  Never  you  mind  my  temper:  its  not  meant 
for  you,  as  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time.  (He  sits 
down  again,  a  little  ashamed  of  his  petulance;  reflects 
a  moment  bitterly;  then  bursts  out.)  I  have  an  instinct 
against  going  back  to  Ireland:  an  instinct  so  strong 
that  I'd  rather  go  with  you  to  the  South  Pole  than  to 
RosscuUen. 

Broadbent.  "SMiat!  Here  you  are,  belonging  to  a 
nation  with  the  strongest  patriotism !  the  most  invet- 
erate homing  instinct  in  the  world !  and  you  pretend 
youd     rather     go     anywhere     than     back     to     Ireland. 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  17 

You  donl  suppose  I  believe  you^  do  you?  In  your 
heart — 

Doyle.  Never  mind  my  heart:  an  Irishman's  heart 
is  nothing  but  his  imagination.  How  many  of  all  those 
millions  that  have  left  Ireland  have  ever  come  back  or 
wanted  to  come  back?  But  whats  the  use  of  talking  to 
you?  Three  verses  of  twaddle  about  the  Irish  emigrant 
"  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary,"  or  three  hours  of  Irish 
patriotism  in  Bermondsey  or  the  Scotland  Division  of 
Liverpool,  go  further  with  you  than  all  the  facts  that 
stare  you  in  the  face.  Why,  man  alive,  look  at  me! 
You  know  the  way  I  nag,  and  worry,  and  carp,  and 
cavil,  and  disparage,  and  am  never  satisfied  and  never 
quiet,  and  try  the  patience  of  my  best  friends. 

Broadbent.  Oh,  come,  Larry!  do  yourself  justice. 
Youre  very  amusing  and  agreeable  to  strangers. 

Doyle.  Yes,  to  strangers.  Perhaps  if  I  was  a  bit 
stiffer  to  strangers,  and  a  bit  easier  at  home,  like  an 
Englishman,  I'd  be  better  company  for  you. 

Broadbent.  We  get  on  well  enough.  Of  course 
you  have  the  melancholy  of  the  Keltic  race — 

Doyle   (bounding  out  of  his  chair).     Good  God!!! 

Broadbent  (slyly) — and  also  its  habit  of  using 
strong  language  when  theres  nothing  the  matter. 

Doyle.  Nothing  the  matter!  When  people  talk 
about  the  Celtic  race,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  burn  down 
London.  That  sort  of  rot  does  more  harm  than  ten 
Coercion  Acts.  Do  you  suppose  a  man  need  be  a  Celt  to 
feel  melancholy  in  Rosscullen?  Why,  man,  Ireland 
was  peopled  just  as  England  was;  and  its  breed  was 
crossed  by  just  the  same  invaders. 

Broadbent.  True.  All  the  capable  people  in  Ire- 
land are  of  English  extraction.  It  has  often  struck  me 
as  a  most  remarkable  circumstance  that  the  only  party 
in  parliament  which  shews  the  genuine  old  English  char- 
acter and  spirit  is  the  Irish  party.  Look  at  its  inde- 
pendence, its  determination,  its  defiance  of  bad  Govern- 


18  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

ments,  its  syrapcathy  with  oppressed  nationalities  all  the 
world  over  !     How  English  ! 

Doyle.  Not  to  mention  the  solemnity  with  which  it 
talks  old-fashioned  nonsense  which  it  knows  perfectly 
well  to  be  a  century  behind  the  times,  Thats  English^ 
if  you  like. 

Broadbent.  No,  Larry,  no.  You  are  thinking  of 
the  modern  hybrids  that  now  monopolize  England. 
Hypocrites,  humbugs,  Germans,  Jews,  Yankees,  for- 
eigners. Park  Laners,  cosmopolitan  riifrafF.  Dont  call 
them  English.  They  dont  belong  to  the  dear  old  island, 
but  to  their  confounded  new  empire ;  and  by  George ! 
the_vre  worthy  of  it;  and  I  wish  them  joy  of  it. 

Doyle  (unmoved  by  this  outburst).  There!  You 
feel  better  now,  dont  you.^ 

Broadbent  (defiantly).     I  do.     Much  better. 

Doyle.  My  dear  Tom,  you  only  need  a  touch  of  the 
Irish  climate  to  be  as  big  a  fool  as  I  am  myself.  If 
all  my  Irish  blood  were  poured  into  your  veins,  you 
wouldnt  turn  a  hair  of  your  constitution  and  character. 
Go  and  marry  the  most  English  Englishwoman  you  can 
find,  and  then  bring  up  your  son  in  Rosscullen;  and 
that  son's  character  will  be  so  like  mine  and  so  imlike 
yours  that  everybody  will  accuse  me  of  being  his  father. 
(With  sudden  anguish.)  Rosscullen!  oh,  good  Lord, 
Rosscullen  !  The  dullness  !  the  hopelessness  !  the  igno- 
rance !  the  bigotry ! 

Broadbent  (matter-of-factly).  The  usual  thing  in 
the  country,  Larry.     Just  the  same  here. 

Doyle  (hastily).  No,  no:  the  climate  is  different. 
Here,  if  the  life  is  dull,  you  can  be  dull  too,  and  no 
great  harm  done.  (Going  off  into  a  passionate  dream.) 
But  your  wits  cant  thicken  in  that  soft  moist  air,  on 
those  white  springy  roads,  in  those  misty  rushes  and 
brown  bogs,  on  those  hillsides  of  granite  rocks  and 
magenta  heather.  Youve  no  such  colors  in  the  sky,  no 
such  lure  in  the  distances,  no  such  sadness  in  the  even- 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  19 

ings.  Oh,  the  dreaming!  the  dreaming!  the  torturing, 
heartiscalding,  never  satisfying  dreaming,  dreaming, 
dreaming,  dreaming!  (Savagely.)  No  debauchery  that 
ever  coarsened  and  brutalized  an  Englishman  can  take 
the  worth  and  usefulness  out  of  him  like  that  dreaming. 
An  Irishman's  imagination  never  lets  him  alone,  never 
convinces  him,  never  satisfies  him;  but  it  makes  him 
that  he  cant  face  reality  nor  deal  with  it  nor  handle  it 
nor  conquer  it:  he  can  only  sneer  at  them  that  do,  and 
(bitterly,  at  Broadhent)  be  "  agreeable  to  strangers," 
like  a  good-for-nothing  woman  on  the  streets.  (Gab- 
bling at  Broadbent  across  the  table.)  Its  all  dreaming, 
all  imagination.  He  cant  be  religious.  The  inspired 
Churchman  that  teaches  him  the  sanctity  of  life  and 
the  importance  of  conduct  is  sent  away  empty;  while 
the  poor  village  priest  that  gives  him  a  miracle  or  a 
sentimental  story  of  a  saint,  has  cathedrals  built  for 
him  out  of  the  pennies  of  the  poor.  He  cant  be  in- 
telligently political:  he  dreams  of  what  the  Shan  Van 
Vocht  said  in  ninety  eight.  If  you  want  to  interest  him 
in  Ireland  youve  got  to  call  the  unfortunate  island  Kath- 
leen ni  Hoolihan  and  pretend  shes  a  little  old  woman. 
It  saves  thinking.  It  saves  working.  It  saves  every- 
thing except  imagination,  imagination,  imagination;  and 
imagination's  such  a  torture  that  you  cant  bear  it  with- 
out whisky.  (JVith  fierce  shivering  self-contempt.)  At 
last  you  get  that  you  can  bear  nothing  real  at  all:  youd 
rather  starve  than  cook  a  meal;  youd  rather  go  shabby 
and  dirty  than  set  your  mind  to  take  care  of  your 
clothes  and  wash  yourself;  you  nag  and  squabble  at 
home  because  your  wife  isnt  an  angel,  and  she  despises 
you  because  youre  not  a  hero;  and  you  hate  the  whole 
lot  round  you  because  theyre  only  poor  slovenly  useless 
devils  like  yourself.  (Dropping  his  voice  like  a  man 
making  some  shameful  confidence.)  And  all  the  while 
there  goes  on  a  horrible,  senseless,  mischievous  laughter. 
When   youre   young,   you   exchange   drinks   with   other 


20  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

young  men;  and  you  exchange  vile  stories  with  them; 
and  as  youre  too  futile  to  be  able  to  help  or  cheer  them, 
you  chaff  and  sneer  and  taunt  them  for  not  doing  the 
things  you  darent  do  yourself.  And  all  the  time  you 
laugl),  laugh,  laugh !  eternal  derision,  eternal  envy,  eter- 
nal folly,  eternal  fouling  and  staining  and  degrading, 
until,  when  you  come  at  last  to  a  country  where  men 
take  a  question  seriously  and  give  a  serious  answer  to  it, 
you  deride  them  for  having  no  sense  of  humor,  and 
})lume  yourself  on  your  own  worthlessness  as  if  it  made 
you  better  than  them. 

Broadbent  {roused  to  intense  earnestness  by  Doyle's 
eloquence).  Never  despair,  Larry.  There  are  great 
possibilities  for  Ireland.  Home  Rule  will  work  won- 
ders under  English  guidance. 

UoYLE  (pulled  up  short,  his  face  twitching  with  a 
reluctant  smile).  Tom:  why  do  you  select  my  most 
tragic  moments  for  your  most  irresistible  strokes  of 
humor .'' 

Broadbent.  Humor!  I  was  perfectly  serious. 
What  do  you  mean.''  Do  you  doubt  my  seriousness 
about  Home  Rule? 

Doyle.  I  am  sure  you  are  serious,  Tom,  about  the 
English  guidance. 

Broadbent  {quite  reassured).  Of  course  I  am.  Our 
guidance  is  the  important  thing.  We  English  must 
place  our  capacity  for  government  without  stint  at  the 
service  of  nations  who  are  less  fortunately  endowed  in 
tliat  respect;  so  as  to  allow  them  to  develop  in  perfect 
freedom  to  the  English  level  of  self-government,  you 
know.     You  understand  me? 

Doyle.  Perfectly.  And  RosscuUen  will  understand 
you  too. 

Broadbent  {cheerfully).  Of  course  it  will.  So 
thats  all  right.  {He  pulls  up  his  chair  and  settles  him- 
self comfortably  to  lecture  Doyle.)  Now,  Larry,  Ive 
listened  carefully  to  all  youve  said  about  Ireland;  and 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  21 

I  can  see  notliing  whatever  to  prevent  your  coming  with 
me.  What  does  it  all  come  to?  Simply  that  you  were 
only  a  young  fellow  when  you  were  in  Ireland.  Youll 
find  all  that  chaffing  and  drinking  and  not  knowing 
what  to  be  at  in  Peckham  just  the  same  as  in  Donny- 
brook.  You  looked  at  Ireland  with  a  boy's  eyes  and 
saw  only  boyish  things.  Come  back  with  me  and  look 
at  it  with  a  man's,  and  get  a  better  opinion  of  your 
country. 

Doyle.  I  daresay  youre  partly  right  in  that:  at  all 
events  I  know  very  well  that  if  I  had  been  the  son  of 
a  laborer  instead  of  the  son  of  a  country  landagent,  I 
should  have  struck  more  grit  than  I  did.  Unfortunately 
I'm  not  going  back  to  visit  the  Irish  nation,  but  to  visit 
my  father  and  Aunt  Judy  and  Nora  Reilly  and  Father 
Dempsey  and  the  rest  of  them. 

Broadbent.  Well,  why  not?  Theyll  be  delighted 
to  see  you,  now  that  England  has  made  a  man  of  you. 

Doyle  (struck  by  this).  Ah!  you  hit  the  mark  there, 
Tom,  with  true   British  inspiration. 

Broadbent.      Common  sense,  you  mean. 

Doyle  (quickly).  No  I  dont:  youve  no  more  com- 
mon sense  than  a  gander.  No  Englishman  has  any 
common  sense,  or  ever  had,  or  ever  will  have.  Youre 
going  on  a  sentimental  expedition  for  perfectly  ridicu- 
lous reasons,  with  your  head  full  of  political  nonsense 
that  would  not  take  in  any  ordinarily  intelligent  donkey; 
but  you  can  hit  me  in  the "  eye  with  the  simple  truth 
about  myself  and  my  father. 

Broadbent  (amazed).  I  never  mentioned  your 
father. 

Doyle  (not  heeding  the  interruption).  There  he  is 
in  Rosscullen,  a  landagent  who's  always  been  in  a  small 
way  because  hes  a  Catholic,  and  the  landlords  are  mostly 
Protestants.  What  with  land  courts  reducing  rents  and 
Land  Acts  turning  big  estates  into  little  holdings,  he'd 
be  a  beggar  this  day  if  he  hadnt  bought  his  own  little 


22  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

farm  under  the  Land  Purchase  Act.  I  doubt  if  has 
been  further  from  home  than  Athenmullet  for  the  last 
twent}'  years.  And  here  am  I,  made  a  man  of,  as  you 
say,  by  England. 

Broadbent  (apologetically).  I  assure  you  I  never 
meant 

Doyle.  Oh,  dont  apologize:  it's  quite  true.  I  dare- 
say Ive  learnt  something  in  America  and  a  fcAV  other 
remote  and  inferior  sjoots;  but  in  the  main  it  is  by 
living  with  jou  and  working  in  double  harness  with 
you  that  I  have  learnt  to  live  in  a  real  world  and  not 
in  an  imaginary  one.  I  owe  more  to  you  than  to  any 
Irishman. 

Broadbent  (shaking  Ins  head  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye).  Very  friendly  of  you,  Larry,  old  man,  but  all 
blarney.     I  like  blarney;  but  it's  rot,  all  the  same. 

Doyle,  No  it's  not.  I  should  never  have  done  any- 
thing without  you;  although  I  never  stop  wondering 
at  that  blessed  old  head  of  yours  with  all  its  ideas  in 
watertiglit  compartments,  and  all  the  compartments  war- 
ranted impervious  to  anything  that  it  doesnt  suit  you 
to  understand. 

Broadbent  (invincible).  Unmitigated  rot,  Larry,  I 
assure  you. 

Doyle.  Well,  at  any  rate  you  will  admit  that  all  my 
friends  are  either  Englishmen  or  men  of  the  big  world 
that  belongs  to  the  big  Powers.  AH  the  serious  part 
of  my  life  has  been  lived  in  that  atmosphere:  all  the 
serious  part  of  my  M'ork  had  been  done  with  men  of 
that  sort.  Just  think  of  me  as  I  am  now  going  back  to 
Rosscullen !  to  that  hell  of  littleness  and  monotony ! 
How  am  I  to  get  on  with  a  little  country  landagent  that 
ekes  out  his  5  per  cent  with  a  little  farming  and  a  scrap 
of  house  property  in  the  nearest  country  to%vn?  What 
am  I  to  say  to  him.''     ^Miat  is  he  to  say  to  me? 

Broadbent  (scandalized).  But  youre  father  and  son, 
man! 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  23 

Doyle.  What  difference  does  that  make?  What 
would  you  say  if  I  proposed  a  visit  to  your  father  ? 

Broadbent  {tvith  filial  rectitude).  I  always  made  a 
point  of  going  to  see  my  father  regularly  until  his  mind 
gave  way. 

Doyle  (concerned).  Has  he  gone  mad?  You  never 
told  me. 

Broadbent.  He  has  joined  the  Tariff  Reform 
League.  He  would  never  have  done  that  if  his  mind 
had  not  been  weakened.  (Beginning  to  declaim.)  He 
has  fallen  a  victim  to  the  arts  of  a  political  charlatan 
who 

Doyle  (interrupting  him).  You  mean  that  you  keep 
clear  of  your  father  because  he  differs  from  you  about 
Free  Trade,  and  you  dont  want  to  quarrel  with  him. 
Well,  think  of  me  and  my  father !  Hes  a  Nationalist 
and  a  Separatist.  I'm  a  metallurgical  chemist  turned 
civil  engineer.  Now  whatever  else  metallurgical  chem- 
istry may  be,  it's  not  national.  It's  international.  And 
my  business  and  yours  as  civil  engineers  is  to  join  coun- 
tries, not  to  separate  them.  The  one  real  political  con- 
viction that  our  business  has  rubbed  into  us  is  that  fron- 
tiers are  hindrances  and  flags  confomided  nuisances. 

Broadbent  (still  smarting  under  Mr.  Chamberlain's 
economic  heresy).  Only  when  there  is  a  protective 
tariff 

Doyle  (firmly).  Now  look  here,  Tom:  you  want  to 
get  in  a  speech  on  Free  Trade;  and  youre  not  going  to 
do  it:  I  wont  stand  it.  My  father  wants  to  make  St. 
George's  Channel  a  frontier  and  hoist  a  green  flag  on 
College  Green ;  and  I  want  to  bring  Galway  within  3 
hours  of  Colchester  and  2i  of  New  York.  I  want  Ire- 
land to  be  the  brains  and  imagination  of  a  big  Com- 
monwealth, not  a  Robinson  Crusoe  island.  Then  theres 
the  religious  difficulty.  My  Catholicism  is  the  Catholi- 
cism of  Charlemagne  or  Dante,  qualified  by  a  great  deal 
of  modern  science  and  folklore  which  Father  Dempsey 


24  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

would  call  the  ravings  of  an  Atheist.  Well,  my  father's 
Catholicism  is  the  Catholicism  of  Father  Dempsey. 

Broadbext  (shrewdly).  I  dont  want  to  interrupt 
you,  Larry;  but  you  know  this  is  all  gammon.  These 
differences  exist  in  all  families;  but  the  members  rub 
on  together  all  right.  (Suddenly  relapsing  into  por- 
tentousness.)  Of  course  there  are  some  questions  which 
touch  the  very  foundations  of  morals ;  and  on  these  I 
grant  you  even  the  closest  relationships  cannot  excuse 
any  compromise  or  laxity.     For  instance 

Doyle  (impatiently  springing  up  and  walking  about). 
For  instance,  Home  Rule,  South  Africa,  Free  Trade, 
and  the  Education  Rate.  Well,  I  should  differ  from 
my  father  on  every  one  of  them,  probably,  just  as  I 
differ  from  you  about  them. 

Broadbent.  Yes;  but  you  are  an  Irishman;  and 
these  things  are  not  serious  to  you  as  they  are  to  an 
Englishman. 

Doyle.     ^\Tiat!  not  even  Home  Rule! 

Broadbent  (steadfastly).  Not  even  Home  Rule. 
We  owe  Home  Rule  not  to  the  Irish,  but  to  our  English 
Gladstone.  No,  Larry:  I  cant  help  thinking  that  theres 
something  behind  all  this. 

Doyle  (hotly).  What  is  there  behind  it?  Do  you 
think  I'm  humbugging  you? 

Broadbent.  Dont  fly  out  at  me,  old  chap.  I  only 
thought — 

Doyle.     What  did  you  think? 

Broadbent.  Well,  a  moment  ago  I  caught  a  name 
which  is  new  to  me:  a  Miss  Nora  Reilly,  I  think. 
(Doyle  stops  dead  and  stares  at  him  with  something 
like  awe.)  I  dont  wish  to  be  impertinent,  as  you  know, 
Larry;  but  are  you  sure  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  your 
reluctance  to  come  to  Ireland  with  me? 

Doyle  (sitting  down  again,  vanquished).  Thomas 
Broadbent:  I  surrender.  The  poor  silly-clever  Irish- 
man takes  off  his  hat  to  God's  Englishman.     The  man 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  25 

who  could  in  all  seriousness  make  that  recent  remark 
of  yours  about  Home  Rule  and  Gladstone  must  be 
simply  the  champion  idiot  of  all  the  world.  Yet  the 
man  who  could  in  the  very  next  sentence  sweep  away 
all  my  special  pleading  and  go  straight  to  the  heart  of 
my  motives  must  be  a  man  of  genius.  But  that  the 
idiot  and  the  genius  should  be  the  same  man !  how  is 
that  possible?  (Sprmging  to  his  feet)  By  Jove,  I 
see  it  all  now.  I'll  Avrite  an  article  about  it,  and  send  it 
to  Nature. 

Broadbent   (staring  at  him).     What  on  earth — 

Doyle.  It's  quite  simple.  You  know  that  a  cater- 
pillar— 

Broadbent.     A  caterpillar ! ! ! 

Doyle.  Yes,  a  caterpillar.  Now  give  your  mind  to 
what  I  am  going  to  say;  for  it's  a  new  and  important 
scientific  theory  of  the  English  national  character.  A 
caterpillar — 

Broadbent.     Look  here,  Larry:  dont  be  an  ass. 

Doyle  (insisting).  I  say  a  caterpillar  and  I  mean  a 
caterpillar.  Youll  understand  presently.  A  caterpillar 
(Broadbent  mutters  a  slight  protest,  but  does  not  press 
it)  when  it  gets  into  a  tree,  instinctively  makes  itself 
look  exactly  like  a  leaf;  so  that  both  its  enemies  and 
its  prey  may  mistake  it  for  one  and  think  it  not  worth 
bothering  about. 

Broadbent.  ^Aliats  that  got  to  do  Avith  our  English 
national  character? 

Doyle.  I'll  tell  you.  The  world  is  as  full  of  fools 
as  a  tree  is  full  of  leaves.  Well,  the  Englishman  does 
what  the  caterpillar  does.  He  instinctively  makes  him- 
self look  like  a  fool,  and  eats  up  all  the  real  fools  at 
his  ease  while  his  enemies  let  him  alone  and  laugh  at 
him  for  being  a  fool  like  the  rest.  Oh,  nature  is  cim- 
ning,  cunning!  (He  sits  down,  lost  in  contemplation  of 
his   Tvord- picture.) 

Broadbent     (rvith    hearty    admiration).     Now    you 


26  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

know,  Larry,  that  would  never  have  occurred  to  me. 
You  Irish  people  are  amazingly  clever.  Of  course  it's 
all  tommy  rot;  but  it's  so  brilliant,  you  know!  How 
the  dickens  do  you  think  of  such  things !  You  really 
must  write  an  article  about  it:  they  11  paj^  you  something 
for  it.  If  Nature  wont  have  it,  I  can  get  it  into  En- 
gineering for  you:  I  know  the  editor. 

Doyle.  Lets  get  back  to  business.  I'd  better  tell 
you  about  Nora  Reilly. 

Broadbent.  No:  never  mind.  I  sho\ildnt  have  al- 
luded to  her. 

Doyle.     I'd  rather.     Nora  has  a  fortune. 
Broadbent   {keenly  interested).     Eh?     How  much? 
Doyle.     Forty  per  annum. 
Broadbent.     Forty  thousand? 
Doyle.     No,  forty.     Forty  pounds. 
Broadbent   (much  dashed).     Thats  what  you  call  a 
fortune  in  Rosscullen,  is  it? 

Doyle.  A  girl  with  a  dowry  of  five  pounds  calls  it 
a  fortune  in  Rosscullen.  "WTiats  more,  £40  a  year  i  s  a 
fortime  there;  and  Nora  Reilly  enjoys  a  good  deal  of 
social  consideration  as  an  heiress  on  the  strength  of  it. 
It  has  helped  my  father's  household  through  many  a 
tight  place.  My  father  was  her  father's  agent.  She 
came  on  a  visit  to  us  when  he  died,  and  has  lived  with 
us  ever  since. 

Broadbent  (attentively,  beginning  to  suspect  Larry 
of  misconduct  with  Nora,  and  resolving  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it).  Since  when?  I  mean  how  old  were  you 
when  she  came? 

Doyle.  I  was  seventeen.  So  was  she:  if  she'd  been 
older  she'd  have  had  more  sense  than  to  stay  with  us. 
We  were  together  for  18  months  before  I  went  up  to 
Dublin  to  study.  WTien  I  went  home  for  Christmas 
and  Easter,  she  was  there:  I  suppose  it  used  to  be 
something  of  an  event  for  her,  though  of  course  I  never 
thought  of  that  then. 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  27 

Broadbent.     Were  you  at  all  hard  hit? 

Doyle.  Not  really.  I  had  only  two  ideas  at  that 
time:  first,  to  learn  to  do  something;  and  then  to  get 
out  of  Ireland  and  have  a  chance  of  doing  it.  She  didnt 
count.  I  was  romantic  about  her,  just  as  I  was  romantic 
about  Byron's  heroines  or  the  old  Round  Tower  of 
RosscuUen;  but  she  didnt  count  any  more  than  they 
did.  Ive  never  crossed  St.  George's  Channel  since  for 
her  sake — never  even  landed  at  Queenstown  and  come 
back  to  London  through  Ireland. 

Broadbent.  But  did  you  ever  say  anything  that 
would  justify  her  in  waiting  for  you? 

Doyle.     No,  never.     But  she  i  s  waiting  for  me. 

Broadbent.     How  do  you  know? 

Doyle.  She  writes  to  me — on  her  birthday.  She 
used  to  write  on  mine,  and  send  me  little  things 
as  presents;  but  I  stopped  that  by  pretending  that 
it  was  no  use  when  I  was  travelling,  as  they  got 
lost  in  the  foreign  post-offices.  (He  pronounces 
post-offices  with  the  stress  on  offices,  instead  of  on 
post.) 

Broadbent.     You  answer  the  letters? 

Doyle.  Not  very  punctually.  But  they  get  ac- 
knowledged at  one  time  or  another. 

Broadbent.  How  do  you  feel  when  you  see  her 
handwriting  ? 

Doyle.     Uneasy.     I'd  give  <£50  to  escape  a  letter. 

Broadbent  {looking  grave,  and  throrving  himself 
back  in  his  chair  to  intimate  that  the  cross-examination 
is  over,  and  the  result  very  damaging  to  the  rvitness). 
Hm! 

Doyle.     What  d'ye  mean  by  Hm !  ? 

Broadbent.  Of  course  I  know  that  the  moral  code  is 
different  in  Ireland.  But  in  England  it's  not  consid- 
ered fair  to  trifle  with  a  woman's  affections. 

Doyle.  You  mean  that  an  Englishman  would  get 
engaged  to  another  woman  and  return  Nora  her  letters 


28  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

and  presents  with  a  letter  to  say  he  was  unworthy  of 
her  and  wished  her  every  happiness? 

Bro.vdbext.  Well,  even  that  would  set  the  poor 
girl's  mind  at  rest. 

Doyle.  Would  it?  I  wonder!  One  thing  I  can  tell 
you;  and  that  is  that  Nora  would  wait  until  she  died  of 
old  age  sooner  than  ask  my  intentions  or  condescend 
to  hint  at  the  possibility  of  my  having  any.  You  dont 
know  what  Irish  pride  is.  England  may  have  knocked 
a  good  deal  of  it  out  of  me;  but  shes  never  been  in 
England;  and  if  I  had  to  choose  between  wounding  that 
delicacy  in  her  and  hitting  her  in  the  face,  I'd  hit  her 
in  the  face  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

Broadbent  (rvho  has  been  nursing  his  knee  and  re- 
flecting, apparently  rather  agreeably).  You  know,  all 
this  sounds  rather  interesting.  Theres  the  Irish  charm 
about  it.  Thats  the  worst  of  you:  the  Irish  charm 
doesnt  exist  for  you. 

Doyle.  Oh  yes  it  does.  But  it's  the  charm  of  a 
dream.  Live  in  contact  with  dreams  and  you  will  get 
something  of  their  charm:  live  in  contact  with  facts 
and  you  will  get  something  of  their  brutality.  I  wish 
I  could  find  a  country  to  live  in  where  the  facts  were 
not  brutal  and  the  dreams  not  unreal. 

Broadbext  {changing  his  attitude  and  responding  to 
Doyle's  earnestness  rrith  deep  conviction:  his  elbons  on 
the  table  and  his  hands  clenched).  Dont  despair,  Larry, 
old  boy:  things  may  look  black;  but  there  will  be  a 
great  change  after  the  next  election. 

Doyle   (jumping  up).     Oh  get  out,  you  idiot! 

Broadbext  (rising  also,  not  a  bit  snubbed).  Ha! 
ha!  you  may  laugh;  but  we  shall  see.  However,  dont 
let  us  argue  about  that.  Come  now!  you  ask  my  advice 
about  Miss  ReiUy? 

DoYLE  (reddening).  No  I  dont.  Damn  your  advice! 
(Softening.)     Lets  have  it,  all  the  same. 

Broadbext.     Well,  everything  you  tell  me  about  her 


Act  I  John  Bull's  Other  Island  29 

impresses  me  favorably.  She  seems  to  have  the  feelings 
of  a  lady;  and  though  we  must  face  the  fact  that  in 
England  her  income  would  hardly  maintain  her  in  the 
lower  middle  class — 

Doyle  {interrupting).  Now  look  here,  Tom.  That 
reminds  me.  When  you  go  to  Ireland,  just  drop  talking 
about  the  middle  class  and  bragging  of  belonging  to  it. 
In  Ireland  youre  either  a  gentleman  or  youre  not.  If 
you  want  to  be  particularly  offensive  to  Nora,  you  can 
call  her  a  PajDist;  but  if  you  call  her  a  middle-class 
woman,  Heaven  help  you! 

Broadbent  {irrepressible').  Never  fear.  Youre  all 
descended  from  the  ancient  kings:  I  know  that.  {Com- 
placently.) I'm  not  so  tactless  as  you  think,  my  boy. 
{Earnest  again.)  I  expect  to  find  Miss  Reilly  a  perfect 
lady;  and  I  strongly  advise  you  to  come  and  have  an- 
other look  at  her  before  you  make  up  your  mind  about 
her.     By  the  way,  have  you  a  photograph  of  her? 

Doyle.     Her  photographs  stopped  at  twenty-five. 

Broadbent  {saddened).  Ah  yes,  I  suppose  so. 
{With  feeling,  severely.)  Larry:  youve  treated  that 
poor  girl  disgracefully. 

Doyle.  By  George,  if  she  only  knew  that  two  men 
were  talking  about  her  like  this — ! 

Broadbent.  She  wouldnt  like  it,  would  she?  Of 
course  not.  We  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves, 
Larry.  {More  and  more  carried  away  by  his  new  fancy.) 
You  know,  I  have  a  sort  of  presentiment  that  Miss 
Reilly  is  a  very  superior  woman. 

Doyle  {staring  hard  at  him).  Oh!  you  have,  have 
you? 

Broadbent.  Yes  I  have.  There  is  something  very 
touching  about  the  history  of  this  beautiful  girl. 

Doyle.  Beau — !  Oho!  Heres  a  chance  for  Nora! 
and  for  me!     {Calling.)     Hodson. 

HoDSON  {appearing  at  the  bedroom  door).  Did  you 
call,  sir? 


30  John  Bull's  Other  Island  Act  I 

Doyle.     Pack  for  me  too.     I'm  going  to  Ireland  with 

Mr.  Broadbent. 

HoDsoN.     Right,  sir.     {He  retires  into  the  bedroom.) 
Broadbent      (clapping     Doyle     on     the     shoulder). 

Thank  you,  old  chap.     Thank  you. 


END    OF    ACT    I. 


ACT     II 

Rosscullen.  Westward  a  hillside  of  granite  rock  and 
heather  slopes  upward  across  the  prospect  from  south 
to  north.  A  huge  stone  stands  on  it  in  a  naturally  im- 
possible place,  as  if  it  had  been  tossed  up  there  by  a 
giant.  Over  the  brow,  in  the  desolate  valley  beyond, 
is  a  round  tower.  A  lonely  white  high  road  trending 
away  westward  past  the  tower  loses  itself  at  the  foot  of 
the  far  mountains.  It  is  evening;  and  there  are  great 
breadths  of  silken  green  in  the  Irish  sky.  The  sun  is 
setting. 

A  man  with  the  face  of  a  young  saint,  yet  with  white 
hair  and  perhaps  50  years  on  his  back,  is  standing  near 
the  stone  in  a  trance  of  intense  melancholy,  looking  over 
the  hills  as  if  by  mere  intensity  of  gaze  he  could  pierce 
the  glories  of  the  sunset  and  see  into  the  streets  of 
heaven.  He  is  dressed  in  black,  and  is  rather  more 
clerical  in  appearance  than  most  English  curates  are 
nowadays;  but  he  does  not  wear  the  collar  and  waistcoat 
of  a  parish  priest.  He  is  roused  from  his  trance  by  the 
chirp  of  an  insect  from  a  tuft  of  grass  in  a  crevice  of 
the  stone.  His  face  relaxes:  he  turns  quietly,  and 
gravely  takes  off  his  hat  to  the  tuft,  addressing  the 
insect  in  a  brogue  which  is  the  jocular  assumption  of  a 
gentleman  and  not  the  natural  speech  of  a  peasant. 

The  Man.  An  is  that  yourself,  IVfisther  Grasshop- 
per?    I  hope  I  see  you  well  this  fine  evenin. 

The    Grasshopper    (^prompt    and   shrill   in    answer^. 

x.x. 

SI 


32  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  II 

The  Man  (encouragingly).  Thats  right.  I  suppose 
now  Touve  come  out  to  make  yourself  miserable  be  ad- 
myerin  the  sunset? 

The  Grasshopper  (sadly).     X.X. 

The  Man.     Aj-e^  youre  a  thrue  Irish  grasshopper. 

The  Grasshopper   (loudly).     X.X.X. 

The  Man.  Three  cheers  for  ould  Ireland,  is  it? 
That  helps  you  to  face  out  the  misery  and  the  poverty 
and  the  torment,  doesnt  it? 

The  Grasshopper   (plaintively).     X.X. 

The  Man.  Ah,  its  no  use,  me  poor  little  friend.  If 
you  could  jump  as  far  as  a  kangaroo  you  couldnt  jump 
away  from  your  own  heart  an  its  punishment.  You  can 
only  look  at  Heaven  from  here:  you  cant  reach  it. 
There !  (pointing  with  his  stick  to  the  sunset)  thats  the 
gate  o  glory,  isnt  it? 

The  Grasshopper   (assenting).     X.X. 

The  Man.  Sure  it's  the  wise  grasshopper  yar  to 
know  that !  But  tell  me  this,  Misther  Unworldly  Wise- 
man: why  does  the  sight  of  Heaven  wring  your  heart 
an  mine  as  the  sight  of  holy  wather  wrings  the  heart 
o  the  divil?  AMiat  wickedness  have  you  done  to  bring 
that  curse  on  you?  Here!  where  are  you  jumpin  to? 
Wheres  your  manners  to  go  skyrocketin  like  that  out 
o  the  box  in  the  middle  o  your  confession  (he  threatens 
it  with  his  stick)  ? 

The  Grasshopper   (penitently).     X. 

The  Man  (lowering  the  stick).  I  accept  your  apol- 
ogy; but  dont  do  it  again.  And  now  tell  me  one  thing 
before  I  let  you  go  home  to  bed.  Which  would  you 
say  this  counthry  was:  hell  or  purgatory? 

The  Grasshopper.     X. 

The  Man.  Hell!  Faith  I'm  afraid  youre  right.  I 
wondher  what  you  and  me  did  when  we  were  alive  to 
get  sent  here. 

The  Grasshopper   (shrilly).     X.X. 

The  Man    (nodding).     Well,  as  you  say,  its  a  deli- 


Act  ir        John  Bull's  Other  Island  33 

cate  subject;  and  I  wont  press  it  on  you.  Now  off 
widja. 

The  Grasshopper.     X.X.      (It  springs  away.) 

The  Man  {waving  his  stick).  God  speed  you!  {He 
walks  away  past  the  stone  towards  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
Immediately  a  young  laborer,  his  face  distorted  with 
terror,  slips  round  from  behind  the  stone. 

The  Laborer  (crossing  himself  repeatedly).  Oh 
glory  be  to  God!  glory  be  to  God!  Oh  Holy  Mother 
an  all  the  saints !  Oh  murdher !  murdher !  (Beside 
himself,  calling. )     Fadher  Keegan  !  Fadher  Keegan  ! 

The  Man  (turning).  Who's  there?  Whats  that? 
(He  comes  back  and  finds  the  laborer,  who  clasps  his 
knees.)     Patsy  Farrell!    What  are  you  doing  here? 

Patsy.  O  for  the  love  o  God  dont  lave  me  here  wi 
dhe  grasshopper.  I  hard  it  spakin  to  you.  Dont  let 
it  do  me  any  harm,  Father  darlint. 

Keegan.  Get  up,  you  foolish  man,  get  up.  Are  you 
afraid  of  a  poor  insect  because  I  pretended  it  was  talk- 
ing to  me? 

Patsy.  Oh,  it  was  no  pretending,  Fadher  dear. 
Didnt  it  give  three  cheers  n  say  it  was  a  divil  out  o 
hell?  Oh  say  youll  see  me  safe  home,  Fadher;  n  put 
a  blessin  on  me  or  somethin  (he  moans  with  terror). 

Keegan.  What  were  you  doin  there,  Patsy,  listnin? 
Were  you  spyin  on  me? 

Patsy.  No,  Fadher:  on.  me  oath  an  soul  I  wasnt:  I 
was  waitn  to  meet  Masther  Larry  n  carry  his  luggage 
from  the  car;  n  I  fell  asleep  on  the  grass;  n  you  woke 
me  talkin  to  the  grasshopper;  n  I  hard  its  wicked  little 
voice.  Oh,  d'ye  think  I'll  die  before  the  year's  out, 
Fadher  ? 

Keegan.  For  shame,  Patsy!  Is  that  your  religion, 
to  be  afraid  of  a  little  deeshy  grasshopper?  Suppose 
it  was  a  divil,  what  call  have  you  to  fear  it?  If  I 
could  ketch  it,  I'd  make  you  take  it  home  widja  in  your 
hat  for  a  penance. 


34  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  II 

Patsy.  Sure,  if  you  wont  let  it  harm  me,  I'm  not 
afraid,  your  riverence.  {He  gets  up,  a  little  reassured. 
He  is  a  callow,  flaxen  polled,  smoothfaced,  downy 
chinned  lad,  fully  grown  hut  not  yet  fully  filled  out, 
with  blue  eyes  and  an  instinctively  acquired  air  of  help- 
lessness and  silliness,  indicating,  not  his  real  character, 
but  a  cunning  developed  by  his  constant  dread  of  a 
hostile  dominance,  which  he  habitually  tries  to  disarm 
and  tempt  into  unmasking  by  pretending  to  be  a  much 
greater  fool  than  he  really  is.  Englishmen  think  him 
half-witted,  which  is  exactly  what  he  intends  them  to 
think.  He  is  clad  in  corduroy  trousers,  unbuttoned 
waistcoat,  and  coarse  blue  striped  shirt.) 

Keegan  (adynonitorily).  Patsy:  what  did  I  tell  you 
about  callin  me  Father  Keegan  an  your  reverence  ?  What 
did  Father  Dempsey  tell  you  about  it? 

Patsy.     Yis,  Fadher. 

Keegan.     Father ! 

Patsy  (desperately).  Arra,  hwat  am  I  to  call  you? 
Fadher  Dempsey  sez  youre  not  a  priest;  n  we  all  know 
youre  not  a  man;  n  how  do  we  know  what  ud  happen 
to  us  if  we  shewed  any  disrespect  to  you?  N  sure  they 
say  wanse  a  priest  always  a  priest. 

Keegan  (sternly).  Its  not  for  the  like  of  you,  Patsy, 
to  go  behind  the  instruction  of  your  parish  priest  and 
set  yourself  up  to  judge  whether  your  Church  is  right 
or  wrong. 

Patsy.     Sure  I  know  that,  sir. 

Keegan.  The  Church  let  me  be  its  priest  as  long 
as  it  thought  me  fit  for  its  work.  When  it  took  away 
my  papers  it  meant  you  to  know  that  I  was  only  a 
poor  madman,  unfit  and  imworthy  to  take  charge  of  the 
souls  of  the  people. 

Patsy.  But  wasnt  it  only  because  you  knew  more 
Latn  than  Fatlier  Dempsey  that  he  was  jealous  of  you? 

Keegan  (scolding  him  to  keep  himself  from  smiling). 
How  dar  you,  Patsy  Farrcll,  jDut  your  own  wicked  little 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  35 

spites  and  foolishnesses  into  the  heart  of  your  priest? 
For  two  pins  I'd  tell  him  what  you  just  said. 

Patsy  (coaxing).     Sure  you  wouldnt — 

Keegan.  Wouldnt  I  ?  God  forgive  you !  youre  little 
better  than  a  heathen. 

Patsy.  Deedn  I  am,  Fadher:  it's  me  bruddher  the 
tinsmith  in  Dublin  youre  thinkin  of.  Sure  he  had  to 
be  a  freethinker  when  he  larnt  a  thrade  and  went  to 
live  in  the  town. 

Keegan.  Well,  he'll  get  to  Heaven  before  you  if 
youre  not  carefi^,  Patsy.  And  now  you  listen  to  me, 
once  and  for  all.  Youll  talk  to  me  and  pray  for  me  by 
the  name  of  Pether  Keegan,  so  you  will.  And  when 
youre  angry  and  tempted  to  lift  your  hand  agen  the 
donkey  or  stamp  your  foot  on  the  little  grasshopper, 
remember  that  the  donkey's  Pether  Keegan's  brother, 
and  the  grasshopper  Pether  Keegan's  friend.  And 
when  youre  tempted  to  throw  a  stone  at  a  sinner  or  a 
curse  at  a  beggar,  remember  that  Pether  Keegan  is  a 
worse  sinner  and  a  worse  beggar,  and  keep  the  stone 
and  the  curse  for  him  the  next  time  you  meet  him. 
Now  say  God  bless  you,  Pether,  to  me  before  I  go,  just 
to  practise  you  a  bit. 

Patsy.     Sure  it  wouldnt  be  right,  Fadher.     I  cant — 

Keegan.  Yes  you  can.  Now  out  with  it;  or  I'll 
put  this  stick  into  your  hand  an  make  you  hit  me  with  it. 

Patsy  (throtving  himself,  on  his  knees  in  an  ecstasy 
of  adoration).  Siire  its  your  blessin  I  want,  Fadher 
Keegan.     I'll  have  no  luck  widhout  it. 

Keegan  (shocked).  Get  up  out  o  that,  man.  Dont 
kneel  to  me:  I'm  not  a  saint. 

Patsy  (with  intense  conviction).  Oh  in  throth  yar, 
sir.  (The  grasshopper  chirps.  Patsy,  terrified,  clutches 
at  Keegan's  hands.)  Dont  set  it  on  me,  Fadher:  I'll 
do  anythin  you  bid  me. 

Keegan  (pulling  him  up).  You  bosthoon,  you! 
Dont   you   see   that  it   only   whistled   to   tell   me    Miss 


3G  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  n 

Reill3''s  comin?  There!  Look  at  her  and  pull  yourself 
together  for  shame.  Off  widja  to  the  road:  youll  be 
late  for  the  car  if  you  dont  make  haste  {bustling  him 
down  the  hill).  I  can  see  the  dust  of  it  in  the  gap 
already. 

Patsv.  The  Lord  save  us !  (He  goes  down  the  hill 
towards  the  road  like  a  haunted  man.) 

Nora  Reilljt/  comes  down  the  hill.  A  slight  weak 
woman  in  a  pretty  muslin  print  gown  {her  best),  she 
is  a  figure  commonplace  enough  to  Irish  eyes;  but  on 
the  inhabitants  of  fatter-fed,  crowded,  hustling  and 
bustling  modern  countries  she  makes  a  very  different 
impression.  The  absence  of  any  symptoms  of  coarse- 
ness or  hardness  or  appetite  in  her,  her  comparative 
delicacy  of  manner  and  sensibility  of  apprehension,  her 
thin  hands  and  slender  figure,  her  novel  accent,  with 
the  caressing  plaintive  Irish  melody  of  her  speech,  give 
her  a  charm  which  is  all  the  more  effective  because,  be- 
ing untravelled,  she  is  unconscious  of  it,  and  never 
dreams  of  deliberately  dramatizing  and  exploiting  it,  as 
the  Irishwoman  in  England  does.  For  Tom  Broadbent 
therefore,  an  attractive  woman,  whom  he  would  even 
call  ethereal.  To  Larry  Doyle,  an  everyday  woman  fit 
only  for  the  eighteenth  century,  helpless,  useless,  al- 
most sexless,  an  invalid  tvithout  the  excuse  of  disease, 
an  incarnation  of  everything  in  Ireland  that  drove  him 
out  of  it.  These  judgments  have  little  value  and  no 
finality;  but  they  are  the  judgments  on  which  her  fate 
hangs  just  at  present.  Keegan  touches  his  hat  to  her: 
he  does  not  take  it  off. 

Nora.  Mr.  Keegan:  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute 
if  you  dont  mind. 

Keeoax  {dropping  the  broad  Irish  vernacular  of  his 
speech  to  Patsy).  An  hour  if  you  like,  Miss  Reilly: 
youre  always  welcome.     Shall  we  sit  down.'' 

Nora.  Thank  you.  {They  sit  on  the  heather.  She 
is  shy  and  anxious;  bid  she  comes  to  the  point  promptly 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  37 

because  she  can  think  of  nothing  else.)  They  say  you 
did  a  gradle  o  travelling  at  one  time. 

Keegan.  Well  you  see  I'm  not  a  Mnooth  man  (he 
vieans  that  he  was  not  a  student  at  Maynooth  College). 
When  I  was  young  I  admired  the  older  generation  of 
priests  that  had  been  educated  in  Salamanca.  So  when 
I  felt  sure  of  my  vocation  I  went  to  Salamanca.  Then 
I  walked  from  Salamanca  to  Rome,  an  sted  in  a  monas- 
tery there  for  a  year.  My  pilgrimage  to  Rome  taught 
me  that  walking  is  a  better  way  of  travelling  than  the 
train;  so  I  walked  from  Rome  to  the  Sorbonne  in  Paris; 
and  I  wish  I  could  have  walked  from  Paris  to  Oxford; 
for  I  was  very  sick  on  the  sea.  After  a  year  of  Oxford 
I  had  to  walk  to  Jerusalem  to  walk  the  Oxford  feeling 
off  me.  From  Jerusalem  I  came  back  to  Patmos,  and 
spent  six  months  at  the  monastery  of  Mount  Athos. 
From  that  I  came  to  Ireland  and  settled  down  as  a 
parish  priest  until  I  went  mad. 

Nora  (startled).     Oh  dont  say  that. 

Keegan.  W^hy  not.^  Dont  you  know  the  story?  how 
I  confessed  a  black  man  and  gave  him  absolution;  and 
how  he  put  a  spell  on  me  and  drove  me  mad. 

Nora.  How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  about  your- 
self .''     For  shame ! 

Keegan.  It's  not  nonsense  at  all:  it's  true — in  a 
way.  But  never  mind  the  black  man.  Now  that  you 
know  what  a  travelled  man  I  am,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?  (She  hesitates  and  plucks  nervously  at  the  heather. 
He  stays  her  hand  gently.)  Dear  Miss  Nora:  dont 
pluck  the  little  flower.  If  it  was  a  pretty  baby  you 
wouldnt  want  to  puil  its  head  off  and  stick  it  in  a  vawse 
o  water  to  look  at.  (The  grasshopper  chirps:  Keegan 
turns  his  head  and  addresses  it  in  the  vernacular.)  Be 
aisy,  me  son :  she  wont  sjjoil  the  swing-swong  in  your 
little  three.  (To  Nora,  resuming  his  urbane  style.) 
You  see  I'm  quite  cracked;  but  never  mind:  I'm  harm- 
less.    Now  what  is  it? 


38  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  n 

SouA  (embarrassed).  Ofa,  onlj  idle  conoaitT.  I 
vanted  to  know  whether  joa  found  Irthmd — I  mean 
the  couulTT  part  of  Ireland,  of  coarse — very  small  aiul 
backwardlike  when  joo  came  back  to  it  from  Bome  and 
Oxford  and  all  the  great  cities. 

Kkkgax.  When  I  went  to  those  great  cities  I  saw 
wonders  I  had  never  seen  in  Ireland.  But  when  I  came 
back  to  Ireland  I  found  all  the  wonders  there  waiting 
for  me.  Too  see  they  had  been  there  all  the  time;  but 
mr  eres  had  nerer  been  apattd  to  them.  I  did  not 
know  what  mj  own  boose  was  like,  becanse  I  had  nerer 
been  ootside  iL 

Nora.     D're  think  thats  the  same  with  everrbodrr 

Kecgax.  With  everrbodr  who  has  eres  in  his  soul 
as  well  as  in  his  bead. 

Nora.  But  reallr  and  tmly  now,  werent  the  people 
rather  disappmnting?  I  shoold  think  the  girls  most 
hare  seemed  rather  coarse  and  dowdr  after  the  foreign 
princesses  and  pettier  But  I  snf^Mjse  a  priest  wooldnt 
notice  that 

Kezgax.  It's  a  priest's  bosiness  to  notice  erervthing. 
I  wont  tell  TOD  all  I  noticed  about  women;  Irat  111 
tell  Ton  this.  The  more  a  man  knows,  and  the  farther 
he  trarels,  the  more  likelj  he  is  to  manr  a  comitry  girl 
afterwards. 

N'oBA  (blushing  with  deiigkt).  Yoore  joking,  Mr. 
Keegan:  I'm  sure  jar. 

Keegax.  Mr  war  of  joking  is  to  tell  the  troth.  It's 
the  fmmiest  joke  in  the  world. 

NoKA   (incredulous).     Gakmg  with  roo! 

Keegax  (springing  up  actitely).  Shall  we  go  down 
to  the  road  and  meet  the  car?  (She  gives  hia$  her  hand 
and  he  helps  her  up.)  Patsr  Farrell  told  me  too  were 
expecting  joong  Doyle. 

Nora  (tossing  her  chin  up  at  once).  Oh,  I'm  not 
expecting  him  patticolarlr.  It's  a.  wonder  hes  come 
back  at  alL     After  staring  away  etgfateen  years  he  can 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  39 

harly  expect  us  to  be  very  anxioas  to  see  him,  can  he 
now? 

Keeoax.  Well,  not  anxious  perhaps;  bat  you  will 
be  curious  to  see  how  much  hes  changed  in  all  these 
years. 

Nora  (trith  a  sudden  bitter  flush).  1  supptose  thats 
all  that  brings  him  back  to  look  at  us,  just  to  see  how 
much  w  e  V  e  changed.  Well,  he  can  wait  and  see  me 
be  candlelight:  I  didnt  come  out  to  meet  him:  I'm  going 
to  walk  to  the  Round  Tower  (going  nest  across  the 
hill). 

Keegax.  You  couldnt  do  better  this  fine  evening. 
{Gravely.)  I'll  tell  him  where  youve  gone.  {She  turns 
as  if  to  forbid  him;  hut  the  deep  understanding  in  his 
eyes  makes  that  impossible ;  and  she  only  looks  at  him 
earnestly  and  goes.  lie  matches  her  disappear  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hill;  then  says)  Aye,  hes  come  to  tor- 
ment you;  and  youre  driven  already  to  torment  him. 
{He  shakes  his  head,  and  goes  sloftly  away  across  the 
hill  in  the  opposite  direction,  lost  in  thought.) 

By  this  time  the  car  has  arrived,  and  dropped  three 
of  its  passengers  on  the  high  road  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  It  is  a  monster  jaunting  car,  black  and  dilapidated, 
one  of  the  last  survivors  of  the  public  vehicles  known  to 
earlier  generations  as  Beeyankiny  cars,  the  Irish  having 
laid  violent  tongues  on  the  name  of  their  projector,  one 
Bianconi,  an  enterprising  Italian.  The  three  passen- 
gers are  the  parish  priest.  Father  Dempsey;  Cornelius 
Doyle,  Larry's  father;  and  Broadbent,  all  in  overcoats 
and  as  stiff  as  only  an  Irish  car  could  make  them. 

The  priest,  stout  and  fatherly,  falls  far  short  of  that 
finest  type  of  countryside  pastor  which  represents  the 
genius  of  priesthood;  but  he  is  equally  far  above  the 
base  type  in  which  a  strong-minded  and  unscrupulous 
peasant  uses  the  Church  to  extort  money,  power,  and 
privilege.  He  is  a  priest  neither  by  vocation  nor  ambi- 
tion, but  because  the  life  suits  him.     lie  has  boundless 


40  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  II 

authority  over  his  flock,  and  taxes  them  stiffly  enough 
to  be  a  rich  man.  The  old  Protestant  ascendency  is  now 
too  broken  to  gall  him.  On  the  whole,  an  easygoing, 
amiable,  even  modest  man  as  long  as  his  dues  are  -paid 
and  his  authority  and  dignity  fully  admitted. 

Cornelius  Doyle  is  an  elder  of  the  small  miry  type, 
with  a  hardskinned,  rather  worried  face,  clean  shaven 
except  for  sandy  whiskers  blanching  into  a  lustreless 
pale  yellow  and  quite  white  at  the  roots.  His  dress  is 
that  of  a  country-town  man  of  busi7iess:  that  is,  an  old- 
ish shooting  suit,  and  elastic  sided  boots  quite  uncon- 
nected with  shooting.  Feeling  shy  with  Broadbent,  he 
is  hasty,  which  is  his  may  of  trying  to  appear  genial. 

Broadbent,  for  reasons  which  trill  appear  later,  has 
no  luggage  except  a  field  glass  and  a  guide  book.  The 
other  two  have  left  theirs  to  the  unfortunate  Patsy  Far- 
rell,  who  struggles  up  the  hill  after  them,  loaded  with 
a  sack  of  potatoes,  a  hamper,  a  fat  goose,  a  colossal 
salmon,  and  several  paper  parcels. 

Cornelius  leads  the  way  up  the  hill,  with  Broadbent 
at  his  heels.  The  priest  follows;  and  Patsy  lags  labori- 
ously behind. 

Cornelius.  This  is  a  bit  of  a  climb,  Mr.  Broadbent; 
but  its  shorter  than  goin  round  be  the  road. 

Broadbent  (stopping  to  examine  the  great  stone). 
Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Doyle:  I  want  to  look  at  this  stone. 
It  must  be  Finian's  die-cast. 

Cornelius  (in  blank  bewilderment).     Hwat.'' 

Broadbent.  Murray  describes  it.  One  of  your 
great  national  heroes — I  cant  pronounce  the  name — 
Finian  Somebody,  I  think. 

Father  Dempsey  (also  perplexed,  and  rather  scan- 
dalized).    Is  it  Fin  McCool  you  mean? 

Broadbent.  I  daresay  it  is.  (Referring  to  the 
guide  book.)  Murray  says  that  a  huge  stone,  probably 
of  Druidic  origin,  is  still  pointed  out  as  the  die  cast  by 
Fin  in  his  celebrated  match  with  the  devil. 


Act  II         John  Bull's  Other  Island  41 

Cornelius  (dubiously).  Jeuce  a  word  I  ever  heard 
of  it! 

Father  Dempsey  (very  seriously  indeed,  and  even  a 
little  severely).  Dont  believe  any  such  nonsense,  sir. 
There  never  was  any  such  thing.  When  people  talk  to 
you  about  Fin  McCool  and  the  like,  take  no  notice  of 
them.     It's  all  idle  stories  and  superstition. 

Broadbent  (somewhat  indignantly;  for  to  he  re- 
buked by  an  Irish  priest  for  superstition  is  more  than 
he  can  stand).     You  dont  suppose  I  believe  it,  do  you.'' 

Father  Dempsey.  Oh,  I  thought  you  did.  D'ye 
see  the  top  o  the  Roun  Tower  there?  thats  an  antiquity 
worth  lookin  at. 

Broadbent  (deeply  interested).  Have  you  any  the- 
ory as  to  what  the  Round  Towers  were  for.^ 

Father  Dempsey  (a  little  o^ ended).  A  theory.^ 
Me!  (Theories  are  connected  in  his  mind  with  the  late 
Professor  Tyndall,  and  with  scientific  scepticism  gen- 
erally: also  perhaps  with  the  view  that  the  Round  Tow- 
ers are  phallic  symbols.) 

Cornelius  (remonstrating) .  Father  Dempsey  is  the 
priest  of  the  parish,  Mr.  Broadbent.  What  would  he 
be  doing  with  a  theory.^ 

Father  Dempsey  (with  gentle  emphasis).  I  have  a 
knowledge  of  what  the  Roun  Towers  were,  if  thats 
what  you  mean.  They  are  the  forefingers  of  the  early 
Church,  pointing  us  all  to  God. 

Patsy,  intolerably  overburdened,  loses  his  balance, 
and  sits  down  involuntarily.  His  burdens  are  scattered 
over  the  hillside.  Cornelius  and  Father  Dempsey  turn 
furiously  on  him,  leaving  Broadbent  beaming  at  the 
stone  and  the  tower  with  fatuous  interest. 

Cornelius.  Oh,  be  the  hokey,  the  sammin's  broke  in 
two !     You  schoopid  ass,  what  d'ye  mean .'' 

Father  Dempsey.  Are  you  drunk.  Patsy  Farrell.^ 
Did  I  tell  you  to  carry  that  hamper  carefully  or  did  I 
not.? 


42  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  II 

Patsy  (rubbing  the  back  of  his  head,  which  has  al- 
most dinted  a  slab  of  granite).  Sure  me  fut  slipt. 
Howkn  I  carry  three  men's  luggage  at  wanst? 

Father  Dempsey.  You  were  told  to  leave  behind 
what  you  couldnt  carry,  an  go  back  for  it. 

Patsy.  An  whose  things  was  I  to  lave  behind?  Hwat 
would  your  reverence  think  if  I  left  your  hamper  behind 
in  the  wet  grass;  n  hwat  would  the  masther  say  if  I 
left  the  sammin  and  the  goose  be  the  side  o  the  road 
for  annywan  to  pick  up? 

Cornelius.  Oh,  youve  a  dale  to  say  for  yourself, 
you  butther-fingered  omadhaun.  WaitU  Ant  Judy  sees 
the  state  o  that  sammin :  she'll  talk  to  you.  Here ! 
gimme  that  birdn  that  fish  there;  an  take  Father  Demp- 
sey's  hamper  to  his  house  for  him;  n  then  come  back 
for  the  rest. 

Father  Dempsey.  Do,  Patsy.  And  mind  you  dont 
fall  down  again. 

Patsy.      Sure  I — 

Cornelius  (bustling  him  up  the  hill).  Whisht!  heres 
Ant  Judy.  (Patsy  goes  grumbling  in  disgrace,  rvith 
Father  Dempsey's  hamper.) 

Aunt  Judy  comes  down  the  hill,  a  woman  of  50,  in 
no  way  remarkable,  lively  and  busy  without  energy  or 
grip,  placid  without  tranquillity,  kindly  without  concern 
for  others:  indeed  without  much  concern  for  herself: 
a  contented  product  of  a  narrow,  strainless  life.  She 
wears  her  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  quite  smooth, 
with  a  flattened  bun  at  the  back.  Her  dress  is  a  plain 
broivn  frock,  with  a  woollen  pelerine  of  black  and  aniline 
mauve  over  her  shoulders,  all  very  trim  in  honor  of  the 
occasion.  She  looks  round  for  Larry;  is  puzzled;  then 
stares  incredulously  at  Broadbent. 

Aunt  Judy.  Surely  to  goodness  thats  not  you, 
Larry ! 

Cornelius.  Arra  how  could  he  be  Larry,  woman 
alive?      Larry's   in  no   hurry  home,   it  seems.      I   havnt 


Act  n        John  Bull's  Other  Island  43 

set  eyes  on  bim.  This  is  his  friend,  Mr.  Broadbent. 
Mr.  Broadbent:  me  sister  Judy. 

Aunt  Judy  {hospitably:  going  to  Broadbent  and 
shaking  hands  heartily).  Mr.  Broadbent!  Fancy  me 
takin  you  for  Larry !  Sure  we  havnt  seen  a  sight  of 
him  for  eighteen  years,  n  he  only  a  lad  when  he  left  us. 

Broadbent.  Its  not  Larry's  fault:  he  was  to  have 
been  here  before  me.  He  started  in  our  motor  an  hour 
before  ^Ir.  Doyle  arrived,  to  meet  us  at  Athenmullet, 
intending  to  get  here  long  before  me. 

Aunt  Judy.  Lord  save  us !  do  you  think  hes  had  n 
axidnt  ? 

Broadbent.  No:  hes  wired  to  say  hes  had  a  break- 
down and  will  come  on  as  soon  as  he  can.  He  expects 
to  be  here  at  about  ten. 

Aunt  Judy.  There  now!  Fancy  him  trustn  himself 
in  a  motor  and  we  all  expectn  him !  Just  like  him ! 
he'd  never  do  anything  like  anybody  else.  Well,  what 
cant  be  cured  must  be  injoored.  Come  on  in,  all  of  you. 
You  must  be  dyin  for  your  tea,  Mr.  Broadbent. 

Broadbent  (with  a  slight  start).  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it's 
too  late  for  tea  {he  looks  at  his  watch). 

Aunt  Judy.  Not  a  bit:  we  never  have  it  airlier  than 
this.  I  hope  they  gave  you  a  good  dinner  at  Athen- 
mullet. 

Broadbent  {trying  to  conceal  his  consternation  as  he 
realizes  that  he  is  not  going  to  get  any  dinner  after  his 
drive).  Oh — er — excellent,  excellent.  By  the  way, 
hadnt  I  better  see  about  a  room  at  the  hotel.''  {They 
stare  at  him.) 

Cornelius.     The  hotel! 

Father  Dempsey.     Hwat  hotel.'' 

Aunt  Judy.  Indeedn  youre  not  go  in  to  a  hotel. 
Youll  stay  with  us.  I'd  have  put  you  into  Larry's  room, 
only  the  boy's  pallyass  is  too  short  for  you;  but  we'll 
make  a  comfortable  bed  for  you  on  the  sofa  in  the 
parlor. 


44  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  II 

Broadbent.  Youre  very  kind,  Miss  Doyle;  but  really 
I'm  ashamed  to  give  you  so  much  trouble  unnecessarily. 
I  shant  mind  the  hotel  in  the  least. 

Father  Dempsey.  Man  alive !  theres  no  hotel  in 
Rosscullen. 

Broadbent.  No  hotel!  Why,  the  driver  told  me 
there  was  the  finest  hotel  in  Ireland  here.  (They  re- 
gard him  joylessly.) 

Aunt  Judy.  Arra  would  you  mind  what  the  like  of 
him  woi^ld  tell  you?  Sure  he'd  say  hwatever  was  the 
least  trouble  to  himself  and  the  pleasantest  to  you, 
thinkin  you  might  give  him  a  thruppeny  bit  for  him- 
self or  the  like. 

Broadbent.     Perhaps  theres  a  public  house. 

Father  Dempsey  {grimly).     Theres  seventeen. 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah  then,  how  could  you  stay  at  a  public 
house?  thej'^d  have  no  place  to  put  you  even  if  it  was  a 
right  place  for  you  to  go.  Come!  is  it  the  sofa  youre 
afraid  of?  If  it  is^  you  can  have  me  own  bed.  I  can 
sleep  with  Nora. 

Broadbent.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all:  I  should  be  only 
too  delighted.  But  to  upset  your  arrangements  in  this 
way — 

Cornelius  {anxious  to  cut  short  the  discussion,  which 
makes  him  ashamed  of  his  house;  for  he  guesses  Broad- 
bent's  standard  of  comfort  a  little  more  accurately  than 
his  sister  does).  Thats  all  right:  itll  be  no  trouble  at 
all.     Hweres  Nora? 

Aunt  Judy.  Oh,  how  do  I  know?  She  slipped  out 
a  little  while  ago:  I  thought  she  was  goin  to  meet  the 
car. 

Cornelius  {dissatisfied).  Its  a  queer  thing  of  her 
to  run  out  o  the  way  at  such  a  time. 

Aunt  Judy.  Sure  shes  a  queer  girl  altogether.  Come. 
Come  in,  come  in. 

Father  Dempsey.  I'll  say  good-night,.  Mr.  Broad- 
bent.     If   theres    anything    I    can    do    for   you   in    this 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  45 

parish,  let  mc  know.  {He  shakes  hands  with  Broad- 
bent.) 

Broadbent  (effusively  cordial).  Thank  you.  Father 
Dempsey.     Delighted  to  have  met  you,  sir. 

Father  Dempsey  (passing  on  to  Aunt  Judy).  Good- 
night, Miss  Doyle. 

Aunt  Judy.     Wont  you  stay  to  tea? 

Father  Dempsey.  Not  to-night,  thank  you  kindly: 
I  have  business  to  do  at  home.  (He  turns  to  go,  and 
meets  Patsy  Farrell  returning  unloaded.)  Have  you 
left  that  hamper  for  me? 

Patsy.     Yis,  your  reverence. 

Father  Dempsey.     Thats  a  good  lad  (going). 

Patsy  (to  Aunt  Judy).     Fadher  Keegan  sez — 

Father  Dempsey  (J,urning  sharply  on  him).  Whats 
that  you  say? 

Patsy  (frightened).     Fadher  Keegan — 

Father  Dempsey.  How  often  have  you  heard  me 
bid  you  call  Mister  Keegan  in  his  proper  name,  the 
same  as  I  do  ?  Father  Keegan  indeed !  Cant  you  tell 
the  difference  between  your  priest  and  any  ole  madman 
in  a  black  coat? 

Patsy.     Sure  I'm  afraid  he  might  put  a  spell  on  me. 

Father  Dempsey  (rvrath fully).  You  mind  what  I 
tell  you  or  I'll  put  a  spell  on  you  thatll  make  you  lep. 
D'ye  mind  that  now?     (He  goes  home.) 

Patsy  goes  down  the  hill  to  retrieve  the  fish,  the  bird, 
and  the  sack. 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah,  hwy  cant  you  hold  your  tongue. 
Patsy,  before  Father  Dempsey? 

Patsy.  Well,  what  was  I  to  do?  Father  Keegan  bid 
me  tell  you  Miss  Nora  was  gone  to  the  Roun  Tower. 

Aunt  Judy.  An  hwy  couldnt  you  wait  to  tell  us 
until  Father  Dempsey  was  gone? 

Patsy.  I  was  afeerd  o  forgetn  it;  and  then  may  be 
he'd  a  sent  the  grasshopper  or  the  little  dark  looker 
into  me  at  night  to  remind  me  of  it.     (The  dark  looker 


46  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  II 

is  the  common  grey  lizard,  which  is  supposed  to  walk 
down  the  throats  of  incautious  sleepers  and  cause  them 
to  perish  in  a  slow  decline.) 

Cornelius,  Yah,  you  great  gaum,  you!  Widjer 
grasshoppers  and  dark  lookers !  Here :  take  up  them 
things  and  let  me  hear  no  more  o  your  foolish  lip. 
{Patsy  obeys.)  You  can  take  the  sammin  imder  your 
oxther.     (He  wedges  the  salmon  into  Patsy's  axilla.) 

Patsy.  I  can  take  the  goose  too,  sir.  Put  it  on  me 
back  and  gimme  the  neck  of  it  in  me  mouth.  (Cornelius 
is  about  to  comply  thoughtlessly.) 

Aunt  Judy  (feeling  that  Broadhent's  presence  de- 
mands special  punctiliousness).  For  shame.  Patsy!  to 
offer  to  take  the  goose  in  your  mouth  that  we  have  to 
eat  after  you !  The  masterll  bring  it  in  for  you.  (Patsy, 
abashed,  yet  irritated  by  this  ridiculous  fastidiousness, 
takes  his  load  up  the  hill.) 

Cornelius,  \\nhat  the  jeuce  does  Nora  want  to  go 
to  the  Roun  Tower  for.^ 

Aunt  Judy,  Oh,  the  Lord  knows!  Romancin,  I 
suppose.  Praps  she  thinks  Larry  would  go  there  to 
look  for  her  and  see  her  safe  home. 

Broadbent.  I'm  afraid  it's  all  the  fault  of  my  motor. 
!Miss  Reilly  must  not  be  left  to  wait  and  walk  home 
alone  at  night.     Shall  I  go  for  her? 

Aunt  Judy  (contemptuously).  Arra  hwat  ud  hap- 
pen to  her.''  Hurr}'^  in  now,  Corny.  Come,  Mr.  Broad- 
bent.  I  left  the  tea  on  the  hob  to  draw;  and  itll  be 
black  if  we  dont  go  in  an  drink  it. 

They  go  up  the  hill.     It  is  dusk  by  this  time. 

Broadbent  does  not  fare  so  badly  after  all  at  Aunt 
Judy's  board.  He  gets  not  only  tea  and  bread-and- 
butter,  but  more  mutton  chops  than  he  has  ever  con- 
ceived it  possible  to  eat  at  one  sitting.  There  is  also 
a  most  filling  substance  called  potato  cake.  Hardly 
have  his  fears  of  being  starved  been  replaced  by  his 
first  misgiving  that  he  is  eating  too  much  and  will  be 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  47 

sorry  for  it  to-morrow,  rvhen  his  appetite  is  revived  hy 
the  production  of  a  bottle  of  illicitly  distilled  whisky, 
called  potcheen,  which  he  has  read  and  dreamed  of  (he 
calls  it  pottine)  and  is  now  at  last  to  taste.  His  good- 
humor  rises  almost  to  excitement  before  Cornelius  shews 
signs  of  sleepiness.  The  contrast  between  Aunt  Judy's 
table  service  and  that  of  the  south  and  east  coast  hotels 
at  which  he  spends  his  Fridays-to-Tuesdays  when  he 
is  in  London,  seems  to  him  delightfully  Irish.  The 
almost  total  atrophy  of  any  sense  of  enjoyment  in  Cor- 
nelius, or  even  any  desire  for  it  or  toleration  of  th^ 
possibility  of  life  being  something  better  than  a  round 
of  sordid  worries,  relieved  by  tobacco,  punch,  fine  morn- 
ings, and  petty  successes  in  buying  and  selling,  passes 
with  his  guest  as  the  whimsical  affectation  of  a  shrewd 
Irish  humorist  and  incorrigible  spendthrift.  Aunt  Judy 
seems  to  him  an  incarnate  joke.  The  likelihood  that 
the  joke  will  pall  after  a  month  or  so,  and  is  probably 
not  apparent  at  any  time  to  born  Rossculleners,  or  that 
he  himself  unconsciously  entertains  Aunt  Judy  by  his 
fantastic  English  personality  and  English  mispronun- 
ciations, does  not  occur  to  him  for  a  moment.  In  the 
end  he  is  so  charmed,  and  so  loth  to  go  to  bed  and 
perhaps  dream  of  prosaic  England,  that  he  insists  on 
going  out  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  look  for  Nora  Reilly 
at  the  Round  Tower.  Not  that  any  special  insistence 
is  needed;  for  the  English  inhibitive  instinct  does  not 
seem  to  exist  in  Rosscullen.  Just  as  Nora's  liking  to 
miss  a  meal  and  stay  out  at  the  Round  Tower  is  accepted 
as  a  sufficient  reason  for  her  doing  it,  and  for  the  family 
going  to  bed  and  leaving  the  door  open  for  her,  so 
Broadbent's  whim  to  go  out  for  a  late  stroll  provokes 
neither  hospitable  remonstrance  nor  surprise.  Indeed 
Aunt  Judy  wants  to  get  rid  of  him  whilst  she  makes  a 
bed  for  him  on  the  sofa.  So  off  he  goes,  full  fed, 
happy  and  enthusiastic,  to  explore  the  valley  by  moon- 
light . 


48  John  Bull's  Other  Island         Act  II 

The  Round  Tower  stands  about  half  an  Irish  mile 
from  Rosscullen,  some  fft'j  yards  south  of  the  road  on 
a  knoll  with  a  circle  of  wild  greensward  on  if.  Th& 
road  once  ran  over  this  knoll;  but  modern  engineering 
has  tempered  the  level  to  the  Beeyankiny  car  by  carry- 
ing the  road  partly  round  the  knoll  and  partly  through  a 
cutting;  so  that  the  way  from  the  road  to  the  tower  is  a 
footpath  up  the  embankment  through  furze  and  brambles. 

On  the  edge  of  this  slope,  at  the  top  of  the  path, 
Nora  is  straining  her  eyes  in  the  moonlight,  watching 
for  Larry.  At  last  she  gives  it  up  with  a  sob  of  im- 
patience, and  retreats  to  the  hoary  foot  of  the  tower, 
where  she  sits  dorvn  discouraged  and  cries  a  little.  Then 
she  settles  herself  resignedly  to  wait,  and  hums  a  song 
— not  an  Irish  melody,  but  a  hackneyed  English  draw- 
ing-room ballad  of  the  season  before  last — until  some 
slight  noise  suggests  a  footstep,  when  she  springs  up 
eagerly  and  runs  to  the  edge  of  the  slope  again.  Some 
moments  of  silence  and  suspense  follow,  broken  by  un- 
mistakable footsteps.  She  gives  a  little  gasp  as  she 
sees  a  man  approaching. 

Nora.  Is  that  you,  Larry?  {Frightened  a  little.^ 
Wlio's  that? 

Broadbent's  voice  from  below  on  the  path.  Dont  be 
alarmed. 

Nora.     Oh,  what  an  English  accent  youve  got! 

Broadbent  {rising  into  view).  I  must  introduce  my- 
self— 

Nora  {violently  startled,  retreating).  Its  not  you! 
WTio  are  you?     What  do  you  want? 

Broadbent  {advancing).  I'm  really  s  o  sorry  to  have 
alarmed  you,  Miss  Reilly.  My  name  is  Broadbent. 
Larry's  friend,  j'ou  know. 

Nora  {chilled).  And  has  Mr.  Doyle  not  come  with 
you? 

Broadbent.  No.  Ive  come  instead.  I  hope  I  am 
not  unwelcome. 


Act  II        John  Bulls  Other  Island  49 

Nora  (deeplj/  mortified).  I'm  sorry  Mr.  Doyle 
should  have  given  you  the  trouble,  I'm  sure. 

Broadbent.  You  see,  as  a  stranger  and  an  English- 
man, I  thought  it  would  be  interesting  to  see  the  Round 
Tower  by  moonlight. 

Nora.  Oh,  you  came  to  see  the  tower.  I  thought — 
{confused,  trying  to  recover  her  manners).  Oh,  of 
course.  I  was  so  startled —  It's  a  beautiful  night,  isnt 
it? 

Broadbent.  Lovel}'.  I  must  explain  why  Larry 
has  not  come  himself. 

Nora.  Why  should  he  come?  Hes  seen  the  tower 
often  enough:  it's  no  attraction  to  him.  (Genteelly.) 
An  what  do  you  think  of  Ireland,  Mr.  Broadbent? 
Have  you  ever  been  here  before? 

Broadbent.     Never. 

Nora.     An  how  do  you  like  it? 

Broadbent  (suddenly  betraying  a  condition  of  ex- 
treme sentimentality).  I  can  hardly  trust  myself  to 
say  how  much  I  like  it.  The  magic  of  this  Irish  scene, 
and — I  really  dont  want  to  be  personal.  Miss  Reilly; 
but  the  charm  of  your  Irish  voice — 

Nora  (quite  accustomed  to  gallantry,  and  attaching 
no  seriousness  rvhatever  to  it).  Oh,  get  along  with  you, 
Mr.  Broadbent!  Youre  breaking  your  heart  about  me 
already,  I  daresay,  after  seeing  me  for  two  minutes  in 
the  dark. 

Broadbent.  The  voice  is  just  as  beautiful  in  the 
dark,  you  know.  Besides,  Ive  heard  a  great  deal  about 
you  from  Larry. 

Nora  (rvith  hitter  indifference).  Have  you  now? 
Well,  thats  a  great  honor,  I'm  sure. 

Broadbent.  I  have  looked  forward  to  meeting  you 
more  than  to  anything  else  in  Ireland. 

Nora  (ironically).     Dear  me!  did  you  now? 

Broadbent.  I  did  really.  I  wish  you  had  taken  half 
as  much  interest  in  me. 


.•>()  Jolin  l^uir.s  Other  Island         Apt  II 

Nora.  Oh,  J  was  dying  to  sec  you,  of  course.  I  dare- 
say you  can  imagine  the  sensation  an  Englishman  like 
you  would  make  among  us  poor  Irish  people. 

Broadbent.  Ah,  now  youre  chaffing  me.  Miss  Reilly: 
you  know  you  arc.  You  mustnt  chaff  me.  I'm 
very  much  in  earnest  about  Ireland  and  everything 
Irish.  I'm  very  much  in  earnest  about  you  and  about 
Larry. 

Nora.  Larry  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,  'Mr.  Broad- 
bent. 

Broadbent.  If  I  really  thought  that.  Miss  Reilly, 
I  should — well,  I  should  let  myself  feel  that  charm  of 
which  I  spoke  just  now  more  deeply  than  I — than  I — 

Nora.     Is  it  making  love  to  me  you  are.'' 

Broadbent  (scared  and  much  upset).  On  my  word 
I  believe  I  am.  Miss  Reilly.  If  you  say  that  to  me 
again  I  shant  answer  for  myself:  all  the  harps  of  Ire- 
land are  in  your  voice.  (She  laughs  at  him.  He  sud- 
denly loses  his  head  and  seises  her  arms,  to  her  great 
indignation.)  Stop  laughing:  do  you  hear?  I  am  in 
earnest — in  English  earnest.  "When  I  say  a  thing  like 
that  to  a  woman,  I  mean  it.  (Releasing  her  and  trying 
to  recover  his  ordinary  manner  in  spite  of  his  bewilder- 
ing emotion.)      I  beg  your  pardon. 

Nora.     How  dare  you  touch  me? 

Broadbent.  There  are  not  many  things  I  would  not 
dare  for  you.  That  does  not  sound  right  perhaps ;  but 
I  really —  (he  stops  and  passes  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head, rather  lost). 

Nora.  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed.  I  think  if 
you  were  a  gentleman,  and  me  alone  with  you  in  this 
place  at  night,  you  would  die  rather  than  do  such  a 
thing. 

Broadbent.  You  mean  that  it's  an  act  of  treachery 
to  Larry.'' 

Nora.  Deed  I  dont.  What  has  Larry  to  do  with  it? 
It's  an  act  of  disrespect  and  rudeness  to  me:  it  shews 


Act  II        John  Bulls  Other  Island  51 

M'hat  j'ou  take  me  for.  You  can  go  your  way  now;  and 
I'll  go  mine.     Goodnight,  Mr.  Broadbent. 

Broadbent.  No,  please.  Miss  Reilly.  One  moment. 
Listen  to  me.  I'm  serious:  I'm  desperately  serious. 
Tell  me  that  I'm  interfering  with  Larry;  and  I'll  go 
straight  from  this  spot  back  to  London  and  never  see 
you  again.  Thats  on  my  honor:  I  will.  Am  I  inter- 
fering with  him.^ 

Nora  (answering  in  spite  of  herself  in  a  sudden 
spring  of  bitterness).  I  should  think  you  ought  to  know 
better  than  me  whether  youre  interfering  with  him. 
Youve  seen  him  oftener  than  I  have.  You  know  him 
better  than  I  do,  b}'  this  time.  Youve  come  to  me 
quicker  than  he  has,  havnt  you? 

Broadbent.  I'm  bound  to  tell  you,  Miss  Reilly,  that 
Larry  has  not  arrived  in  Rosscullen  yet.  He  meant  to 
get  here  before  me;  but  his  car  broke  down;  and  he 
may  not  arrive  until  to-morrow. 

Nora  (her  face  lighting  up).     Is  that  the  truth .^ 

Broadbent.  Yes:  thats  the  truth.  (She  gives  a  sigh 
of  relief.)     Youre  glad  of  that.'' 

Nora  (up  in  arms  at  once).  Glad  indeed!  Why 
should  I  be  glad?  As  weve  waited  eighteen  years  for 
him  we  can  afford  to  wait  a  day  longer,  I  should  think. 

Broadbent.  If  you  really  feel  like  that  about  him, 
there  may  be  a  chance  for  another  man  yet.     Eh? 

Nora  (deeply  offended)^  I  suppose  people  are  dif- 
ferent in  England,  Mr.  Broadbent;  so  perhaps  you  dont 
mean  any  harm.  In  Ireland  nobody'd  mind  what  a 
man'd  say  in  fun,  nor  take  advantage  of  what  a  woman 
might  say  in  answer  to  it.  If  a  woman  couldnt  talk 
to  a  man  for  two  minutes  at  their  first  meeting  without 
being  treated  the  way  youre  treating  me,  no  decent 
woman  would  ever  talk  to  a  man  at  all. 

Broadbent.  I  dont  understand  that.  I  dont  admit 
that.  I  am  sincere;  and  my  intentions  are  perfectly 
honorable.      I   think  you  will  accept  the   fact  that   I'm 


52  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  II 

a  Englisliman  as  a  guarantee  that  I  am  not  a  raan  to  act 
hastily  or  romantically,  though  I  confess  that  your  voice 
had  such  an  extraordinary  effect  on  me  just  now  when 
you  asked  me  so  quaintly  whether  I  was  making  love 
to  you — 

Nora  {flushing).     I  never  thought — 

BROADnENT  (quickly).  Of  course  you  didnt.  I'm 
not  so  stupid  as  that.  But  I  couldnt  bear  your  laughing 
at  the  feeling  it  gave  me.  You —  (agai7i  struggling  with 
a  surge  of  emotion)  you  dont  know  what  I —  (he  chokes 
for  a  moment  and  then  hhirts  out  with  unnatural  steadi- 
ness) Will  you  be  my  wife.'' 

Nora  (promptly).  Deed  I  wont.  The  idea !  (Look- 
ing at  him  more  carefully.)  Arra,  come  home,  'Mr. 
Broadbent;  and  get  your  senses  back  again.  I  think 
youre  not  accustomed  to  potcheen  punch  in  the  evening 
after  3'our  tea. 

Broadbent  (horrified).  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I 
— I — I — mv  God !  that  I  appear  drunk  to  you.  Miss 
Reilly.? 

Nora  (compassionately).  How  many  tumblers  had 
you  .^ 

Broadbent  (helplessly).     Two. 

Nora.  The  flavor  of  the  turf  prevented  you  noticing 
the  strength  of  it.     Youd  better  come  home  to  bed. 

Broadbent  (fearfully  agitated).  But  this  is  such  a 
horrible  doubt  to  put  into  my  mind — to — to —  For 
Heaven's  sake.  Miss  Reilly,  am  I  really  drunk.'' 

Nora  (soothingly).  Youll  be  able  to  judge  better  in 
the  morning.  Come  on  now  back  with  me,  an  think  no 
more  about  it.  (She  takes  his  arm  with  motherly  solici- 
tude and  urges  him  gently  towards  the  path.) 

Broadbent  (yielding  m  despair).  I  must  be  drunk 
— frightfully  drunk;  for  j'^our  voice  drove  me  out  of  my 
senses—  (he  sttimhles  over  a  stone).  No:  on  my  word, 
on  my  most  sacred  word  of  honor,  Miss  Reilly,  I  tripped 
over  that  stone.     It  was  an  accident;  it  was  indeed. 


Act  II        John  Bull's  Other  Island  53 

Nora.  Yes,  of  course  it  was.  Just  take  my  arm, 
Mr.  Broadbent,  while  we're  goin  down  the  path  to  the 
road.     Youll  be  all  right  then. 

Broadbent  (submissively/  taking  it).  I  cant  suffi- 
ciently apologize,  Miss  Reilly,  or  express  my  sense  of 
your  kindness  when  I  am  in  such  a  disgusting  state. 
How  could  I  be  such  a  bea —  (he  trips  again)  damn  the 
heather !  my  foot  caught  in  it. 

Nora.  Steady  now,  steady.  Come  along:  come.  (He 
is  led  down  to  the  road  in  the  character  of  a  convicted 
drunkard.  To  him  there  is  something  divine  in  the 
sympathetic  indulgence  she  substitutes  for  the  angry  dis- 
gust Tvith  which  one  of  his  own  countrywomen  tvould 
resent  his  supposed  condition.  And  he  has  no  suspicion 
of  the  fact,  or  of  her  ignorance  of  it,  that  ivhen  aw 
Englishman  is  sentimental  he  behaves  very  much  as  an 
Irishman  does  when  he  is  drunk.) 


END   OF   act   II. 


ACT     III 

Next  morning  Broadhent  and  Larry  are  sitting  at  the 
ends  of  a  breakfast  table  in  the  middle  of  a  small  grass 
plot  before  Cornelius  Doyle's  house.  They  have  finished 
their  meal,  and  are  buried  in  newspapers.  Most  of  the 
crockery  is  croivded  upon  a  large  square  black  tray  of 
japanned  metal.  The  teapot  is  of  brown  delft  ware. 
There  is  no  silver;  and  the  butter,  on  a  dinner  plate,  is 
en  bloc.  The  background  to  this  breakfast  is  the 
house,  a  small  white  slated  building,  accessible  by  a 
half -glazed  door.  A  person  coming  out  into  the  garden 
by  this  door  would  find  the  table  straight  in  front  of 
him,  and  a  gate  leading  to  the  road  half  rvay  down  the 
garden  on  his  right;  or,  if  he  turned  sharp  to  his  left, 
he  could  pass  round  the  end  of  the  house  through  an 
unkempt  shrubbery.  The  mutilated  remnant  of  a  huge 
plaster  statue,  nearly  dissolved  by  the  rains  of  a  century, 
and  vaguely  resembling  a  majestic  female  in  Roman 
draperies,  with  a  wreath  in  her  hand,  stands  neglected 
amid  the  laurels.  Such  statues,  though  apparently  works 
of  art,  grow  naturally  in  Irish  gardens.  Their  germina- 
tion is  a  mystery  to  the  oldest  inhabitants,  to  whose 
means  and  tastes  they  are  totally  foreign. 

There  is  a  rustic  bench,  much  soiled  by  the  birds,  and 
decorticated  and  split  by  the  weather,  near  the  little 
gate.  At  the  opposite  side,  a  basket  lies  unmolested  be- 
cause it  might  as  well  be  there  as  anywhere  else.  Am 
empty  chair  at  the  table  was  lately  occupied  by  Cor- 
nelius, who  lias  finished  his  breakfast  and  gone  in  to  the 
room  in  rvJiich  lie  receives  rents  and  keeps  his  books  and 
cash,  known  in  the  household  as  "  the  office."  This 
54 


xVcT  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  55 

chair,  like  the  two  occupied  by  Larry  and  Broadbent,  has 
a  mahogany  frame  and  is  upholstered  in  black  horsehair. 
Larry  rises  and  goes  off  through  the  shrubbery  with 
his  newspaper.  Hodson  comes  in  through  the  garden 
gate,  disconsolate.  Broadbent,  who  sits  facing  the  gate, 
augurs  the  worst  from  his  expression. 

Broadbent.     Have  you  been  to  the  village? 

Hodson.  No  use,  sir.  We'll  have  to  get  everything 
from  London  by  parcel  post. 

Broadbent.  I  hope  they  made  you  comfortable  last 
night. 

Hodson.  I  was  no  worse  than  you  were  on  that  sofa, 
sir.     One  expects  to  rough  it  here,  sir. 

Broadbent.  We  shall  have  to  look  out  for  some 
other  arrangement.  {Cheering  up  irrepressibly.)  Still, 
it's  no  end  of  a  joke.  How  do  you  like  the  Irish, 
Hodson  } 

Hodson.  Well,  sir,  theyre  all  right  anywhere  but  in 
their  own  country.  Ive  known  lots  of  em  in  England, 
and  generally  liked  em.  But  here,  sir,  I  seem  simply 
to  hate  em.  The  feeling  come  over  me  the  moment  we 
landed  at  Cork,  sir.  It's  no  use  my  pretendin,  sir:  I 
cant  bear  em.  My  mind  rises  up  agin  their  ways,  some- 
how: they  rub  me  the  wrong  way  all  over. 

Broadbent.  Oh,  their  faults  are  on  the  surface:  at 
heart  they  are  one  of  the  finest  races  on  earth.  (Hodson 
turns  away,  without  affecting  to  respond  to  his  enthusi- 
asm.)     By  the  way,  Hodson — 

Hodson   {turning).     Yes,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Did  you  notice  anything  about  me  last 
night  when  I  came  in  with  that  lady.'' 

Hodson   {surprised).     No,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Not  any  —  er  —  ?  You  may  speak 
frankly. 

Hodson.  1  didut  notice  nothing,  sir.  What  sort  of 
thing  did  you  mean,  sir? 


56  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

Broadbent.  Well — er — er — well,  to  put  it  plainly, 
was  I  drunk? 

HoDsoN    (amazed).     No,  sir. 

Broadbent.     Quite  sure.'' 

HoDSON.  Well,  I  should  a  said  rather  the  opposite, 
sir.  Usualh--  when  youve  been  enjoying  yourself,  youre 
a  bit  hearty  like.  Last  night  you  seemed  rather  low,  if 
anything. 

Broadbent.  I  certainly  have  no  headache.  Did  you 
try  the  pottine,  Hodson.'' 

HoDSON.  I  just  took  a  mouthful,  sir.  It  tasted  of 
peat:  oh!  something  horrid,  sir.  The  people  here  call 
peat  turf.  Potcheen  and  strong  porter  is  what  they 
like,  sir.  I'm  sure  I  dont  know  how  they  can  stand  it. 
Give  me  beer,  I  say. 

Broadbent.  By  the  way,  you  told  me  I  couldnt  have 
porridge  for  breakfast;  but  Mr.  Doyle  had  some. 

HoDsoN.  Yes,  sir.  Very  sorry,  sir.  They  call  it 
stirabout,  sir:  thats  how  it  was.  They  know  no  better, 
sir. 

Broadbent.     All  right:  I'U  have  some  tomorrow. 

Hodson  goes  to  the  house.  When  he  opens  the  door 
he  finds  Nora  and  Aunt  Judy  on  the  threshold.  He 
stands  aside  to  let  them  pass,  with  the  air  of  a  well 
trained  servant  oppressed  hy  heavy  trials.  Then  he  goes 
in.  Broadbent  rises.  Aunt  Judy  goes  to  the  table  and 
collects  the  plates  and  cups  on  the  tray.  Nora  goes  to 
the  back  of  the  rustic  seat  and  looks  out  at  the  gate 
with  the  air  of  a  woman  accustomed  to  have  nothing  to 
do.     I^arry  returns  from  the  shrubbery. 

Broadbent.     Good  morning,  Miss  Doyle. 

Aunt  Judy  (thinking  it  absurdly  late  in  the  day  for 
such  a  salutation).  Oh,  good  morning.  (Before  moving 
his  plate.)      Have  you  done? 

Broadbent.  Quite,  thank  you.  You  must  excuse  us 
for  not  waiting  for  you.  The  country  air  tempted  us  to 
get  up  early. 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  57 

Aunt  Judy.     N  d'ye  call  this  airly,  God  help  j'ou? 
-    Larry.     Aunt  Judy  probably  breakfasted  about  half 
past  six. 

Aunt  Judy.  Whisht,  you !  —  draggin  the  parlor 
chairs  out  into  the  gardn  n  givin  Mr.  Broadbent  his 
death  over  his  meals  out  here  in  the  cold  air.  {To 
Broadbent.)  Why  d'ye  put  up  with  his  foolishness,  Mr. 
Broadbent .'' 

Broadbent.     I  assure  you  I  like  the  open  air. 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah  galong!  How  can  you  like  whats 
not  natural?     I  hope  you  slept  well. 

Nora.  Did  anything  wake  yup  with  a  thump  at  three 
o'clock?  I  thought  the  house  was  falling.  But  then 
I'm  a  very  light  sleeper. 

Larry.  I  seem  to  recollect  that  one  of  the  legs  of 
the  sofa  in  the  parlor  had  a  way  of  coming  out  rniex- 
pectedly  eighteen  years  ago.     Was  that  it,  Tom? 

Broadbent  (hastily).  Oh,  it  doesnt  matter:  I  was 
not  hurt — at  least — er — 

Aunt  Judy.  Oh  now  what  a  shame!  An  I  told 
Patsy  Farrll  to  put  a  nail  in  it. 

Broadbent.  He  did,  ]\Iiss  Doyle.  There  was  a  nail, 
certainly. 

Aunt  Judy.     Dear  oh  dear ! 

An  oldish  peasant  farmer,  small,  leathery,  peat-faced, 
with  a  deep  voice  and  a  surliness  that  is  meant  to  be 
aggressive,  and  is  in  effect  pathetic — the  voice  of  a  man 
of  hard  life  and  many  sorrows — comes  in  at  the  gate. 
He  is  old  enough  to  have  perhaps  worn  a  long  tailed 
frieze  coat  and  knee  breeches  in  his  time;  but  now  he, 
is  dressed  respectably  in  a  black  frock  coat,  tall  hat, 
and  pollard  colored  trousers;  and  his  face  is  as  clean 
as  washing  can  make  it,  though  that  is  not  saying  much, 
as  the  habit  is  recently  acquired  and  not  yet  congenial. 

The  New-comer  (at  the  gate).  God  save  all  here! 
(He  comes  a  little  ivay  into  the  garden.) 

Larry  (patronizingly,  speaking  across  the  garden  to 


58  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

him).  Is  that  yourself,  Matt  Haffigan?  Do  you  re- 
member me? 

Mattiikw  {intentionally  rude  and  blunt).  No.  Who 
are  you? 

Nora.     Oh,  I'm  sure  you  remember  him,  Mr.  Haffigan. 

Matthew  (grudgingli/  admitting  it).  I  suppose  he'll 
be  young  Larry  Doyle  that  was. 

Larry.     Yes. 

Matthew  (to  Larry).  I  hear  you  done  well  in 
America. 

Larry.     Fairly  well. 

Matthew.  I  suppose  you  saAv  me  brother  Andy  out 
dhere, 

Larry.  No.  It's  such  a  big  place  that  looking  for  a 
man  there  is  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of 
hay.     They  tell  me  lies  a  great  man  out  there. 

Matthew.  So  he  is,  God  be  j^raised.  Wheres  your 
father? 

Aunt  Judy,  He's  inside,  in  the  office,  Mr.  Haffigan, 
with  Barney  Doarn  n  Father  Dempsey. 

Matthew,  without  wasting  further  words  on  the  com- 
pany, goes  curtly  into  the  house. 

Larry  (staring  after  him).  Is  anything  wrong  with 
old  Matt? 

Nora.     No.     Hes  the  same  as  ever.     Why? 

Larry.  Hes  not  the  same  to  me.  He  used  to  be  very 
civil  to  Master  Larry:  a  deal  too  civil,  I  used  to  think. 
Now  hes  as  surly  and  stand-off  as  a  bear. 

Aunt  Judy.  Oh  sure  hes  bought  his  farm  in  the 
Land  Purchase.     Hes  independent  now. 

Nora,  It's  made  a  great  change,  Larry.  Youd  harly 
know  the  old  tenants  now.  Youd  think  it  was  a  liberty 
to  speak  t'dhem — some  o  dliem.  (She  goes  to  the  table, 
and  helps  to  take  off  the  cloth,  which  she  and  Aunt  Judy 
fold  up  between  them.) 

Aunt  Judy.  I  wonder  what  he  wants  to  see  Corny 
for.     He  hasnt  been  here  since  he  paid  tlu^  last  of  his 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  59 

old  rent;  and  then  he  as  good  as  threw  it  in  Corny 's 
face,  I  thought. 

Larry.  No  wonder !  Of  course  they  all  hated  us 
like  the  devil.  Ugh!  {Moodily.)  Ive  seen  them  in 
that  office,  telling  my  father  what  a  fine  boy  I  was,  and 
plastering  him  with  compliments,  with  your  honor  here 
and  your  honor  there,  when  all  the  time  their  fingers 
were  itching  to  be  at  his  throat. 

Aunt  Judy.  Deedn  why  should  they  want  to  hurt 
poor  Corny  .^  It  was  he  that  got  Matt  the  lease  of  his 
farm,  and  stood  up  for  him  as  an  industrious  decent 
man. 

Broadbent.  Was  he  industrious?  Thats  remarkable, 
you  know,  in  an  Irishman. 

Larry.  Industrious !  That  man's  industry  used  to 
make  me  sick,  even  as  a  boy.  I  tell  you,  an  Irish  peas- 
ant's industry  is  not  human:  it's  worse  than  the  industry 
of  a  coral  insect.  An  Englishman  has  some  sense  about 
working:  he  never  does  more  than  he  can  help — and 
hard  enough  to  get  him  to  do  that  without  scamping  it; 
but  an  Irishman  will  work  as  if  he'd  die  the  moment 
he  stopped.  That  man  Matthew  Haffigan  and  his  brother 
Andy  made  a  farm  out  of  a  patch  of  stones  on  the  hill- 
side— cleared  it  and  dug  it  with  their  own  naked  hands 
and  bought  their  first  spade  out  of  their  first  crop  of 
potatoes.  Talk  of  making  two  blades  of  wheat  grow 
where  one  grew  before !  those  two  men  made  a  whole 
field  of  wheat  grow  where  not  even  a  furze  bush  had 
ever  got  its  head  up  between  the  stones. 

Broadbent.  That  was  magnificent,  you  know.  Only 
a  great  race  is  capable  of  producing  such  men. 

Larry.  Such  fools,  you  mean !  What  good  was  it  to 
them?  The  moment  thej'^d  done  it,  the  landlord  put  a 
rent  of  £5  a  year  on  them,  and  turned  them  out  because 
they  couldnt  pay  it. 

Aunt  Judy.  Why  couldnt  they  pay  as  well  as  Billy 
Byrne  that  took  it  after  them? 


60  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

Larry  {angrily).  You  know  very  well  that  Billy 
Byrne  never  paid  it.  He  only  offered  it  to  get  posses- 
sion.    He  never  paid  it. 

Aunt  Judy.  That  was  because  Andy  Haffigan  hurt 
him  with  a  brick  so  that  he  was  never  the  same  again. 
Andy  had  to  run  awaj^  to  America  for  it. 

Broadbent  {glowing  rvith  indignation).  Who  can 
blame  him.  Miss  Doyle .^     Who  can  blame  him? 

Larry  {impatiently).  Oh,  rubbish!  whats  the  good 
of  the  man  thats  starved  out  of  a  farm  murdering  the 
man  thats  starved  into  it.''  Would  you  have  done  such  a 
thing  } 

Broadbent.  Yes.  I — I — I — I —  {stammering  rvith 
fury)  I  should  have  shot  the  confoimded  landlord,  and 
wrung  the  neck  of  the  damned  agent,  and  bloAvn  the 
farm  up  with  dynamite,  and  Dublin  Castle  along 
with  it. 

Larry.  Oh  yes:  youd  have  done  great  things;  and  a 
fat  lot  of  good  youd  have  got  out  of  it,  too!  Thats  an 
Englishman  all  over !  make  bad  laws  and  give  away  all 
the  land,  and  then,  when  your  economic  incompetence 
produces  its  natural  and  inevitable  results,  get  virtu- 
ously indignant  and  kill  the  people  that  carry  out  your 
laws. 

Aunt  Judy.  Sure  never  mind  him,  Mr,  Broadbent. 
It  doesnt  matter,  anyhow,  because  theres  harly  any  land- 
lords left!  and  therll  soon  be  none  at  all. 

Larry.  On  the  contrary,  therll  soon  be  nothing  else; 
and  the  Lord  help  Ireland  then ! 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah,  youre  never  satisfied,  Larry.  {To 
Nora.)  Come  on,  alanna,  an  make  the  paste  for  the  pie. 
We  can  leave  them  to  their  talk.  They  dont  want  us 
{she  takes  up  the  tray  and  goes  into  the  house). 

Broadbent  {rising  and  gallantly  protesting).  Oh, 
Miss  Doyle  !     Really,  really — 

Nora,  following  Aunt  Judy  ivith  the  rolled-up  cloth 
in  her  hands,  holes  at  him  and  strikes  him  dumb.     He 


Act  III        Jolin  Bull's  Other  Island  61 

tvatches  her  unfit  she  disoppears;  then  comes  to  Larry 
and  addresses  him  with  sudden  intensity. 

Broadbent.     Larry. 

Larry.     What  is  it? 

Broadbent.  I  got  drunk  last  night,  and  proposed  to 
Miss  Reilly. 

Larry.  You  hwat.''??  {He  screams  with  laughter 
in  the  falsetto  Irish  register  unused  for  that  purpose  in 
England.) 

Broadbent.     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

Larry  {stopping  dead).  I  dont  know.  Thats  the 
sort  of  thing  an  Irishman  laughs  at.  Has  she  accepted 
you  ? 

Broadbent.  I  shall  never  forget  that  with  the  chiv- 
alry of  her  nation,  though  I  was  utterly  at  her  mercy, 
she  refused  me. 

Larry.  That  was  extremely  improvident  of  her. 
{Beginning  to  reflect.)  But  look  here:  when  were  you 
drunk?  You  were  sober  enough  when  you  came  back 
from  the  Round  Tower  with  her. 

Broadbent.  No,  Larry,  I  was  drunk,  I  am  sorry  to 
say.  I  had  two  tumblers  of  punch.  She  had  to  lead 
me  home.     You  must  have  noticed  it. 

Larry.     I  did  not. 

Broadbent,     She  did. 

Larry.  May  I  ask  how  long  it  took  you  to  come  to 
business?  You  can  hardly  have  kno^vn  her  for  more 
tlian  a  couple  of  hours, 

Broadbent.  I  am  afraid  it  was  hardly  a  couple  of 
minutes.  She  was  not  here  when  I  arrived;  and  I  saw 
her  for  the  first  time  at  the  tower. 

Larry.  Well,  you  area  nice  infant  to  be  let  loose 
in  this  country !  Fancy  the  potcheen  going  to  your  head 
like  that! 

Broadbent.  Not  to  my  head,  I  think.  I  have  no 
headache;  and  I  could  speak  distinctly.  No:  potcheen 
goes  to  the  heart,  not  to  the  head.     What  ought  I  to  do  ? 


62  John  Bull's  Other  Island       Act  III 

Lakky.     Nothing.     What  need  you  do? 

Broadbent.  There  is  rather  a  delicate  moral  ques- 
tion involved.  The  point  is^  was  I  drunk  enough  not 
to  be  morally  responsible  for  my  proposal.^  Or  was  I 
sober  enough  to  be  bound  to  repeat  it  now  that  I  am 
undoubtedh'  sober.'' 

Laruy.  I  should  see  a  little  more  of  her  before  de- 
ciding. 

Broadbent.  No,  no.  That  would  not  be  right.  That 
would  not  be  fair.  I  am  either  vmder  a  moral  obligation 
or  I  am  not.     I  wish  I  knew  how  drunk  I  was. 

Larry.  Well,  you  were  evidently  in  a  state  of  blither- 
ing sentimentality,  anyhow. 

Broadbent.  That  is  true,  Larry:  I  admit  it.  Her 
voice  has  a  most  extraordinary  effect  on  me.  That  Irish 
voice ! 

Larry  (sympathetically').  Yes,  I  know.  AMien  I  first 
went  to  London  I  very  nearly  proposed  to  walk  out  with 
a  waitress  in  an  Aerated  Bread  shop  because  her  White- 
chapel  accent  was  so  distinguished,  so  quaintly  touching, 
so  pretty — 

Broadbent  (angrily).  Miss  Reilly  is  not  a  waitress, 
is  she? 

Larry.  Oh,  come!  The  waitress  was  a  very  nice 
girl. 

Broadbent.  You  think  every  Englishwoman  an 
angel.  You  reallj'  have  coarse  tastes  in  that  way,  Larry. 
Miss  Reilly  is  one  of  the  finer  types :  a  type  rare  in 
England,  except  perhaps  in  the  best  of  the  aristocracy. 

Larry.  Aristocracy  be  blowed !  Do  you  know  what 
Nora  eats? 

Broadbent.     Eats !  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Larry.  Breakfast:  tea  and  bread-and-butter,  with  an 
occasional  rasher,  and  an  egg  on  special  occasions:  say 
on  her  birthday.  Dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  one 
course  and  nothing  else.  In  the  evening,  tea  and  bread- 
and-butter  again.     You  compare  her  with  your  English- 


Act  III        John  Bull's  other  Island  63 

women  who  wolf  down  from  three  to  five  meat  meals  a 
day ;  and  naturally  you  find  her  a  sylph.  The  difference 
is  not  a  difference  of  type:  its  the  difference  between 
the  woman  who  eats  not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  the 
woman  who  eats  not  wisely  but  too  little. 

Broadbent  (furious).  Larry:  you — you — you  dis- 
gust me.  You  are  a  damned  fool.  (He  sits  down 
angrily  on  the  rustic  seat,  which  sustains  the  shock  rvith 
difficulty.) 

Laruy.  Steady!  stead-eee !  (He  laughs  and  seats 
himself  on  the  table.) 

Cornelius  Doyle,  Father  Dempsey,  Barney  Doran, 
and  Matthew  Haffigan  come  from  the  house.  Doran  is 
a  stout  bodied,  short  armed,  roundheaded,  red  haired 
man  on  the  verge  of  middle  age,  of  sanguine  tempera- 
ment, with  an  enormous  capacity  for  derisive,  obscene, 
blasphemous,  or  merely  cruel  and  senseless  fun,  and  a 
violent  and  impetuous  intolerance  of  other  temperaments 
and  other  opinions,  all  this  representing  energy  and 
capacity  wasted  and  demoralized  by  want  of  sufficient 
training  and  social  presstire  to  force  it  into  beneficent 
activity  and  build  a  character  with  it;  for  Barney  is  by 
no  means  either  stupid  or  weak.  He  is  recklessly  untidy 
as  to  his  person;  but  the  worst  effects  of  his  neglect  are 
mitigated  by  a  powdering  of  flour  and  mill  dust;  and 
his  unbrushed  clothes,  made  of  a  fashionable  tailor's 
sackcloth,  were  evidently  chosen  regardless  of  expense 
for  the  sake  of  their  appearance. 

Matthew  Haffigan,  ill  at  ease,  coasts  the  garden  shyly 
on  the  shrubbery  side  until  he  anchors  near  the  basket, 
where  he  feels  least  in  the  way.  The  priest  comes  to 
the  table  and  slaps  Larry  on  the  shoulder.  Larry,  turn- 
ing quickly,  and  recognizing  Father  Dempsey,  alights 
from  the  table  and  shakes  the  priest's  hand  warmly. 
Doran  comes  down  the  garden  between  Father  Dempsey 
and  Matt;  and  Cornelius,  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
turns  to  Broadbent,  who  rises  genially. 


64  John  Bull's  Other  Island       Act  III 

Cornelius.     I  think  wc  all  met  las  night. 

DoRAN.     I  hadnt  that  pleasure. 

Cornelius.  To  be  sure,  Barney:  I  forgot.  (To 
Broadheni,  introducing  Barney.)  Mr.  Doran.  He  owns 
tliat  fine  mill  you  noticed  from  the  car. 

Broadbent  {delighted  with  them  all).  Most  happy, 
Mr.  Doran.     Very  pleased  indeed. 

Doran,  not  quite  sure  whether  he  is  being  courted  or 
patronised,  nods  independently. 

Doran.     Hows  yourself,  Larry? 

Larry.  Finely,  thank  you.  No  need  to  ask  you. 
(Doran  grins;  and  they  shake  hands.) 

Cornelius.     Give  Father  Dempsey  a  chair,  Larry. 

Matthew  Hafflgan  runs  to  the  nearest  end  of  the  table 
and  takes  the  chair  from  it,  placing  it  near  the  basket; 
but  Larry  has  already  taken  the  chair  from  the  other 
end  and  placed  it  in  front  of  the  table.  Father  Dempsey 
accepts  that  more  central  position. 

Cornelius.  Sit  down,  Barney,  will  you;  and  you. 
Mat. 

Doran  takes  the  chair  Mat  is  still  offering  to  the 
priest;  and  poor  Matthetv,  outfaced  by  the  miller, 
humbly  turns  the  basket  upside  down  and  sits  on  it. 
Cornelius  brings  his  own  breakfast  chair  from  the  table 
and  sits  down  on  Father  Dempsey's  right.  Broadbent 
resumes  his  seat  on  the  rustic  bench.  Larry  crosses  to 
the  bench  and  is  about  to  sit  down  beside  him  when 
Broadbent  holds  him  off  nervously. 

Broadbent.     Do  you  think  it  will  bear  two,  Larry? 

Larry.  Perhaps  not.  Dont  move.  I'll  stand.  (He 
posts  himself  behind  the  bench.) 

They  are  all  now  seated,  except  Larry;  and  the  session 
assumes  a  portentous  air,  as  if  something  important  were 
coming. 

Cornelius.     Praps  youU  explain.  Father  Dempsey. 

Father  Dempsey.  No,  no:  go  on,  you:  the  Church 
has  no  politics. 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  65 

Cornelius.  Were  yever  thinkin  o  goin  into  parlia- 
ment at  all,  Larry? 

Larry.     Me ! 

Father  Dempsey  (encouragiyigli/).  Yes,  you.  Hwy 
not.? 

Larry.  I'm  afraid  my  ideas  would  not  be  popular 
enough. 

Cornelius.     I  dont  know  that.     Do  you,  Barney? 

Doran.  Theres  too  much  blatherumskite  in  Irish 
politics:  a  dale  too  much, 

Larry.  But  what  about  your  present  member?  Is 
he  going  to  retire? 

Cornelius.     No:  I  dont  know  that  he  is. 

Larry   (interrogatively).     Well?  then? 

Matthew  (breaking  out  with  surly  brtterness).  Weve 
had  enough  of  his  foolish  talk  agen  lanlords.  Hwat  call 
has  he  to  talk  about  the  Ian,  that  never  was  outside  of  a 
city  office  in  his  life? 

Cornelius.  We're  tired  of  him.  He  doesnt  know 
hwere  to  stop.  Every  man  cant  own  land;  and  some 
men  must  own  it  to  employ  them.  It  was  all  very  well 
when  solid  men  like  Doran  and  me  and  Mat  were 
kep  from  ownin  land.  But  hwat  man  in  his  senses 
ever  wanted  to  give  land  to  Patsy  Farrll  an  dhe  like 
o  him? 

Broadbent.  But  surely  Irish  landlordism  was  ac- 
countable for  what  Mr.  Haffigan  suffered. 

Matthew.  Never  mind  hwat  I  suffered.  I  know 
what  I  suffered  adhout  you  tellin  me.  But  did  I  ever 
ask  for  more  dhan  the  farm  I  made  wid  me  own  bans: 
tell  me  that.  Corny  Doyle,  and  you  that  knoAvs.  Was  I 
fit  for  the  responsibility  or  was  I  not?  (Snarling  angrily 
at  Cornelius.)  Am  I  to  be  compared  to  Patsy  Farrll, 
that  doesnt  harly  know  his  right  hand  from  his  left? 
What  did  he  ever  suffer,  I'd  like  to  know? 

Cornelius.  Thats  just  what  I  say.  I  wasnt  com- 
parin  you  to  your  disadvantage. 


66  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

Matthew  (implacable).  Then  hwat  did  you  mane 
be  talkin  about  givin  him  Ian? 

DoRAN.  Aisy,  Mat,  aisy.  Youre  like  a  bear  with  a 
sore  back. 

Matthew  {trembling  nnth  rage).  An  who  are  you, 
to  offer  to  taitch  me  manners? 

Father  Dempsey  {admonitorily) .  Now,  now,  now. 
Mat!  none  o  dhat.  How  often  have  I  told  you  youre 
too  ready  to  take  offence  where  none  is  meant?  You 
dont  understand:  Corny  Doyle  is  saying  just  what  yju 
want  to  have  said.  {To  Cornelius.)  Go  on,  Mr.  Doyle; 
and  never  mind  him. 

Matthew  (rising).  Well,  if  me  Ian  is  to  be  given 
to  Patsy  and  his  like,  I'm  goin  oura  dhis.     I — 

DoRAN  (rvith  violent  impatience).  Arra  who's  goin 
to  give  your  Ian  to  Patsy,  yowl  fool  ye? 

Father  Dempsey.  Aisy,  Barney,  aisy.  (Sternly,  to 
Mat.)  I  told  you,  Matthew  HafEgan,  that  Corny  Doyle 
was  sayin  nothin  against  you.  I'm  sorry  your  priest's 
word  is  not  good  enough  for  you.  I'll  go,  sooner  than 
stay  to  make  you  commit  a  sin  against  the  Church. 
Good  morning,  gentlemen.  (He  rises.  They  all  rise, 
except  Broadbent.) 

Doran  (to  Mat).  There!  Sarve  you  dam  well  right, 
you  cantankerous  oul  noodle. 

Matthew  (appalled).  Dont  say  dhat,  Fadher  Demp- 
sey. I  never  had  a  thought  agen  you  or  the  Holy 
Church.  I  know  I'm  a  bit  hasty  when  I  think  about 
the  Ian.     I  ax  your  pardon  for  it. 

Father  Dempsey  (resuming  his  seat  rvith  dignified 
reserve).  Very  well:  I'll  overlook  it  this  time.  (He 
sits  dorvn.  The  others  sit  down,  except  Matthew.  Father 
Dempsey,  about  to  ask  Corny  to  proceed,  remembers 
Matthew  and  turns  to  him,  giving  him  just  a  crumb  of 
graciousness.)  Sit  down.  Mat.  (Matthew,  crushed,  sits 
down  iji  disgrace,  and  is  silent,  his  eyes  shifting  pile- 
ously  from  one  speaker  to  another  in  an  intensely  mis- 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  67 

trustful  effort  to  understand  them.)  Go  on^  Mr.  Doyle. 
We  can  make  allowances.     Go  on. 

Cornelius.  Well,  you  see  how  it  is,  Larry.  Round 
about  here,  weve  got  the  land  at  last;  and  we  want  no 
more  Government  meddlin.  We  want  a  new  class  o  man 
in  parliament :  one  dhat  knows  dhat  the  farmer's  the  real 
backbone  o  the  country,  n  doesnt  care  a  snap  of  his 
fingers  for  the  shoutn  o  the  riff-raff  in  the  towns,  or 
for  the  foolishness  of  the  laborers. 

DoRAN.  Aye;  an  dhat  can  afford  to  live  in  London 
and  pay  his  own  way  until  Home  Rule  comes,  instead 
o  wantin  subscriptions  and  the  like. 

Father  Dempsey.  Yes:  thats  a  good  point,  Barney. 
When  too  much  money  goes  to  politics,  it's  the  Church 
that  has  to  starve  for  it.  A  member  of  parliament  ought 
to  be  a  help  to  the  Cliurcli  instead  of  a  burden  on  it. 

Larry.  Heres  a  chance  for  you,  Tom.  What  do  you 
say? 

Broadbent  (deprecatory,  but  important  and  S7niling). 
Oh,  I  have  no  claim  whatever  to  the  seat.  Besides,  I'm 
a  Saxon. 

Dor  an.     A  hwat? 

Broadbent.     A  Saxon.     An  Englishman. 

DoRAN.  An  Englishman.  Bedad  I  never  heard  it 
called  dhat  before. 

Matthew  (cunningly).  If  I  might  make  so  bould, 
Fadher,  I  wouldnt  say  but  an  English  Prodestn 
mightnt  have  a  more  indepindent  mind  about  the  Ian, 
an  be  less  afeerd  to  spake  out  about  it,  dhan  an  Irish 
Catholic. 

Cornelius.  But  sure  Larry's  as  good  as  English: 
arnt  you,  Larry.'' 

Larry.  You  may  put  me  out  of  your  head,  father, 
once  for  all. 

Cornelius.     Arra  why.'' 

Larry.  I  have  strong  opinions  which  wouldnt  suit 
you. 


68  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

Dor  AN  (rallying  him  blatantly).  Is  it  still  Lam'  tlie 
bould  Fenian? 

Larry.  No:  the  bold  Fenian  is  now  an  older  and 
possibly  foolisher  man. 

Cornelius.  Hwat  does  it  matter  to  us  hwat  your 
opinions  are?  You  know  that  your  father's  bought  his 
farm,  just  the  same  as  Mat  here  n  Barney's  mill.  All 
we  ask  now  is  to  be  let  alone.  Youve  nothin  against 
that,  have  you? 

Larry.  Certainly  I  have.  I  dont  believe  in  letting 
anybody  or  anything  alone. 

Cornelius  (losing  his  temper).  Arra  what  d'ye 
mean,  you  young  fool?  Here  Ive  got  you  the  offer  of 
a  good  seat  in  parliament;  n  you  think  yourself  mighty 
smart  to  stand  there  and  talk  foolishness  to  me.  Will 
you  take  it  or  leave  it? 

Larry.  Very  well:  I'll  take  it  with  pleasure  if  youll 
give  it  to  me. 

Cornelius  (subsiding  sulkily).  Well,  why  couldnt 
you  say  so  at  once?  It's  a  good  job  youve  made  up 
your  mind  at  last. 

DoRAN  (suspiciously).     Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit. 

Matthew  (writhing  between  his  dissatisfaction  and 
his  fear  of  the  priest).  Its  not  because  lies  your  son 
that  lies  to  get  the  sate.  Fadher  Dempsey :  wouldnt  you 
think  well  to  ask  him  what  he  manes  about  the  Ian? 

Larry  (coining  down  on  Mat  promptly).  I'll  tell 
you,  ]\Iat.  I  always  thought  it  was  a  stupid,  lazy,  good- 
for-nothing  sort  of  thing  to  leave  the  land  in  the  hands 
of  the  old  landlords  without  calling  them  to  a  strict 
account  for  the  use  they  made  of  it,  and  the  condition 
of  the  people  on  it.  I  could  see  for  myself  that  they 
thought  of  nothing  but  what  they  could  get  out  of  it  to 
spend  in  England;  and  that  they  mortgaged  and  mort- 
gaged until  hardly  one  of  them  owned  his  own  property 
or  could  have  afforded  to  keep  it  up  decently  if  he'd 
wanted  to.     But  I  tell  you  plump  and  plain.  Mat,  that 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  69 

if  anybody  thinks  things  will  be  any  better  now  that 
the  land  is  handed  over  to  a  lot  of  little  men  like  you, 
without  calling  you  to  account  either,  thej^re  mistaken. 

Matthew  {sullenly).  What  call  have  j^ou  to  look 
down  on  me?  I  suppose  you  think  youre  everybody  be- 
cause your  father  was  a  land  agent. 

Larry.  What  call  have  you  to  look  down  on  Patsy 
Farrell.^  I  suppose  you  think  youre  everybody  because 
you  own  a  few  fields. 

Matthew.  W\as  Patsy  Farrll  ever  ill  used  as  I  was 
ill  used?  tell  me  dhat. 

Larry.  He  will  be,  if  ever  he  gets  into  your  power 
as  you  were  in  the  power  of  your  old  landlord.  Do  you 
think,  because  youre  poor  and  ignorant  and  half-crazy 
with  toiling  and  moiling  morning  noon  and  night,  that 
youU  be  any  less  greedy  and  oppressive  to  them  that 
have  no  land  at  all  than  old  Nick  Lestrange,  who  was 
an  educated  travelled  gentleman  that  would  not  have 
been  tempted  as  hard  by  a  hundred  pounds  as  youd  be 
by  five  shillings?  Nick  was  too  high  above  Patsy  Far- 
rell  to  be  jealous  of  him;  but  you,  that  are  only  one 
little  step  above  him,  would  die  sooner  than  let  him 
come  up  that  step;  and  well  you  know  it. 

Matthew  (black  with  rage,  in  a  low  growl).  Lemme 
oura  this.  (^He  tries  to  rise;  but  Doran  catches  his  coat 
and  drags  him  down  again.)  I'm  goin,  I  say.  {Raising 
his  voice.)     Leggo  me  coat,  Barney  Doran. 

Doran.  Sit  down,  yowl  omadhaun,  you.  (Whisper- 
ing.)    Dont  you  want  to  stay  an  vote  against  him? 

Father  Dempsey  (holding  up  his  finger).  Mat! 
(Mat  subsides.)  Now,  now,  now!  come,  come!  Hwats 
all  dhis  about  Patsy  Farrll?  Hwy  need  you  fall  out 
about  him? 

Larry.  Because  it  was  by  using  Patsy's  poverty  to 
undersell  England  in  the  markets  of  the  world  that  we 
drove  England  to  ruin  Ireland.  And  she'll  ruin  us 
again  the  moment  we  lift  our  heads  from  the  dust  if 


70  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

we  trade  in  clieai^  labor;  and  serve  us  right  too!  If  I 
get  into  parliament,  I'll  try  to  get  an  Act  to  prevent  any 
of  you  from  giving  Patsy  less  than  a  pound  a  week 
{they  all  start,  hardly  able  to  believe  their  ears)  or 
working  him  harder  than  youd  work  a  horse  that  cost 
you  fifty  guineas. 

DoRAN.     Hwat!!! 

Cornelius  {aghast).  A  pound  a — God  save  us!  the 
boy's  mad. 

Matthew,  feeling  that  here  is  something  quite  beyond 
his  powers,  turns  openmouthed  to  the  priest,  as  if  look- 
ing for  nothing  less  than  the  summary  excommunication 
of  Larry. 

Larry.  How  is  the  man  to  marry  and  live  a  decent 
life  on  less? 

Father  Dempsey.  Islan  alive,  hwere  have  you  been 
living  all  these  years  ?  and  hwat  have  you  been  dreaming 
of.''  Why,  some  o  dhese  honest  men  here  cant  make 
that  much  out  o  the  land  for  themselves,  much  less  give 
it  to  a  laborer. 

Larry  {now  thoroughly  roused).  Then  let  them 
make  room  for  those  who  can.  Is  Ireland  never  to  have 
a  chance?  First  she  was  given  to  the  rich;  and  now 
that  they  have  gorged  on  her  flesh,  her  bones  are  to  be 
flimg  to  the  poor,  that  can  do  nothing  but  suck  the  mar- 
row out  of  her.  If  we  cant  have  men  of  honor  own  the 
land,  lets  have  men  of  ability.  If  we  cant  have  men 
with  ability,  let  us  at  least  have  men  with  capital.  Any- 
body's better  than  Mat,  who  has  neither  honor,  nor 
ability,  nor  capital,  nor  anything  but  mere  brute  labor 


im 


and  greed  in  him,  Heaven  help  h 

Dor  AN.  Well,  we're  not  all  foostherin'  oul  doddher- 
ers  like  Mat.  {Pleasantly,  to  the  subject  of  this  descrip- 
tion.)    Are  we.  Mat? 

Larry.  For  modern  industrial  purposes  you  might 
just  as  well  be,  Barney.  Youre  all  children:  the  big 
world  that  I  belong  to  has  gone  past  you  and  left  you. 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  71 

Anyhow,  we  Irishmen  were  never  made  to  be  farmers; 
and  we'll  never  do  any  good  at  it.  We're  like  the  Jews : 
the  Almighty  gave  us  brains,  and  bid  us  farm  them, 
and  leave  the  clay  and  the  worms  alone. 

Father  Dempsey  (with  gentle  irony).  Oh!  is  it 
Jews  you  want  to  make  of  us?  I  must  catechize  you  a 
bit  meself,  I  think.  The  next  thing  youU  be  proposing 
is  to  repeal  the  disestablishment  of  the  so-called  Irish 
Church. 

Larry.     Yes:  why  not?     (Sensation.) 

Matthew   (rancorously) .     He's  a  turncoat. 

Larry.  St.  Peter,  the  rock  on  which  our  Church  was 
built,  was  crucified  head  downwards  for  being  a  turn- 
coat. 

Father  Dempsey  (with  a  quiet  authoritative  dignity 
which  checks  Doran,  who  is  on  the  point  of  breaking 
out).  Thats  true.  You  hold  your  tongue  as  befits  your 
ignorance,  Matthew  Haffigan;  and  trust  your  priest  to 
deal  with  this  young  man.  Now,  Larry  Doyle,  whatever 
the  blessed  St  Peter  was  crucified  for,  it  was  not  for 
being  a  Prodestan.     Are  you  one? 

Larry.  No.  I  am  a  Catholic  intelligent  enough  to 
see  that  the  Protestants  are  never  more  dangerous  to  us 
than  when  they  are  free  from  all  alliances  with  the 
State.  The  so-called  Irish  Church  is  stronger  today 
than  ever  it  was. 

jMatthew.  Fadher  Dempsey:  will  you  tell  him  dhat 
me  mother's  ant  was  shot  and  kilt  dead  in  the  sthreet  o 
Rosscullen  be  a  soljer  in  the  tithe  war?  (Frantically.) 
He  wants  to  put  the  tithes  on  us  again.     He — 

Larry  (interrupting  him  with  overhearing  contempt). 
Put  the  tithes  on  you  again !  Did  the  tithes  ever  come 
off  you?  Was  your  land  any  dearer  when  you  paid 
the  tithe  to  the  parson  than  it  was  when  you  paid  the 
same  money  to  Nick  Lestrange  as  rent,  and  he  handed 
it  over  to  the  Church  Sustentation  Fund?  Will  you 
always   be   duped   by   Acts    of   Parliament   that   change 


72  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

nothing  but  the  necktie  of  the  man  that  picks  your 
pocket?  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do  with  you,  Mat  Haffi- 
gan:  I'd  make  you  pay  tithes  to  your  own  Church.  I 
want  the  Catholic  Church  established  in  Ireland:  thats 
what  I  want.  Do  you  think  that  I,  brought  up  to  regard 
myself  as  the  son  of  a  great  and  holy  Church,  can 
bear  to  see  her  begging  her  bread  from  the  ignorance 
and  superstition  of  men  like  you?  I  would  have  her  as 
high  above  worldly  want  as  I  would  have  her  above 
worldly  pride  or  ambition.  Aye;  and  I  would  have  Ire- 
land compete  with  Rome  itself  for  the  chair  of  St.  Peter 
and  the  citadel  of  the  Church;  for  Rome,  in  spite  of 
all  the  blood  of  the  martyrs,  is  pagan  at  heart  to  this 
day,  while  in  Ireland  the  people  is  the  Church  and  the 
Church  the  people. 

Father  Dempsey  (startled,  but  not  at  all  displeased). 
Whisht,  man!  youre  worse  than  mad  Pether  Keegan 
himself. 

Broadbent  (who  has  listened  in  the  greatest  aston- 
ishment). You  amaze  me,  Larry.  Who  would  have 
thought  of  your  coming  out  like  this!  (Solemnly.) 
But  much  as  I  appreciate  your  really  brilliant  eloquence, 
I  implore  you  not  to  desert  the  great  Liberal  principle 
of  Disestablishment. 

Larry.  I  am  not  a  Liberal:  Heaven  forbid!  A  dis- 
established Church  is  the  worst  tyranny  a  nation  can 
groan  under. 

Broadbent  (making  a  wry  face).  Dont  be  para- 
doxical, Larry.     It  really  gives  me  a  pain  in  my  stomach. 

Larry.  YouU  soon  find  out  the  truth  of  it  here. 
Look  at  Father  Dempsey !  he  is  disestablished :  he  has 
nothing  to  hope  or  fear  from  the  State;  and  the  result 
is  that  hes  the  most  powerful  man  in  Rosscullen.  The 
member  for  Rosscullen  would  shake  in  his  shoes  if 
Father  Dempsey  looked  crooked  at  him.  (Father  Demp- 
sey smiles,  by  no  means  averse  to  this  acknowledgment 
of  his  authority.)      Look  at  yourself!  you  would  defy 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  73 

the  established  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ten  times  a 
day;  but  catch  you  daring  to  say  a  word  that  would 
shock  a  Nonconformist!  not  you.  The  Conservative 
party  today  is  the  only  one  thats  not  priestrid- 
den — excuse  the  expression,  Father  {Father  Dempsey 
nods  tolerantly) — because  its  the  only  one  that  has 
established  its  Church  and  can  prevent  a  clergyman 
becoming  a  bishop  if  he's  not  a  Statesman  as  well  as  a 
Churchman. 

He  stops.  They  stare  at  him  dumbfounded,  and  leave 
it  to  the  priest  to  answer  him. 

Father  Dempsey  {judicially).  Young  man:  youll 
not  be  the  member  for  Rosscullen;  but  theres  more  in 
your  head  than  the  comb  will  take  out. 

Larry.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  father;  but  I 
told  you  it  would  be  no  use.  And  now  I  think  the 
candidate  had  better  retire  and  leave  you  to  discuss  his 
successor.  {He  takes  a  newspaper  from  the  table  and 
goes  arvay  through  the  shrubbery  amid  dead  silence,  all 
turning  to  watch  him  until  he  passes  out  of  sight  round 
the  corner  of  the  house.) 

DoRAN  {dazed).  Hwat  sort  of  a  fella  is  he  at  all  at 
all.? 

Father  Dempsey.  He's  a  clever  lad:  theres  the 
making  of  a  man  in  him  yet. 

Matthew  {in  consternation).  D'ye  mane  to  say  dhat 
yll  put  him  into  parliament  to  bring  back  Nick  Le- 
sthrange  on  me,  and  to  put  tithes  on  me,  and  to  rob 
me  for  the  like  o  Patsy  Farrll,  because  hes  Corny  Doyle's 
only  son.'' 

Doran  {brutally).  Arra  hould  your  whisht:  who's 
goin  to  send  him  into  parliament?  Maybe  youd  like  us 
to  send  you  dhere  to  thrate  them  to  a  little  o  your 
anxiety  about  dhat  dirty  little  podato  patch  o  yours. 

Matthew  {plaintively).  Am  I  to  be  towld  dhis 
afther  all  me  sufFerins.? 

DoRAN,     Och,  I'm  tired  o  your  sufFerins.     Weve  been 


74  John  Bull's  Other  Island       Act  ni 

hearin  nothin  else  ever  since  we  -was  childher  but  suf- 
ferins.  Hwen  it  wasnt  yours  it  was  somebody  else's; 
and  hwen  it  was  nobody  else's  it  was  ould  Irelan's.  How 
the  divil  are  we  to  live  on  wan  anodher's  sufFerins? 

Father  Dempsey.  Thats  a  thrue  word,  Barney 
Doarn;  only  your  tongue's  a  little  too  familiar  wi  dhe 
divil.  {To  Mat.)  If  youd  think  a  little  more  o  the 
sufferins  of  the  blessed  saints,  Mat,  an  a  little  less  o 
your  own,  youd  find  the  way  shorter  from  your  farm 
to  heaven.  {Mat  is  about  to  reply.)  Dhere  now!  dhats 
enough!  we  know  you  mean  well;  an  I'm  not  angry  with 
you. 

Broadbext.  Surely,  Mr.  Haffigan,  you  can  see  the 
simple  explanation  of  all  this.  My  friend  Larry  Doyle 
is  a  most  brilliant  speaker;  but  he's  a  Tory:  an  ingrained 
old-fashioned  Tory. 

Cornelius.  N  how  d'ye  make  dhat  out,  if  I  might 
ask  you,  Mr.  Broadbent? 

Broadbent  {collecting  himself  for  a  political  deliver- 
ance). Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Doyle,  theres  a  strong 
dash  of  Toryism  in  the  Irish  character.  Larry  himself 
says  that  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  was  the  most 
tj'pical  Irishman  that  ever  lived.  Of  course  thats  an 
absurd  paradox;  but  still  theres  a  great  deal  of  truth 
in  it.  Now  I  am  a  Liberal.  You  know  the  great  prin- 
ciples of  the  Liberal  party.     Peace — 

Father  Dempsey  {piously).     Hear!  hear! 

Broadbent  {encouraged).  Thank  you.  Retrench- 
ment—  {he  rvaits  for  further  applause). 

Matthew  {timidly).  What  might  rethrenchment 
mane  now? 

Broadbent.  It  means  an  immense  reduction  in  the 
burden  of  the  rates  and  taxes. 

Matthew  {respectfully  approving).  Dhats  right. 
Dhats  right,  sir. 

Broadbent  {perfunctorily).  And,  of  course.  Re- 
form. 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  75 

Cornelius  1 

Father  Dempsey  |-  {conventionally) .     Of  course, 

DORAN  j 

Matthew  {still  suspicious).  Hwat  does  Reform 
mane^  sir?  Does  it  mane  altlierin  annythin  dhats  as  it 
is  now? 

Broadbent  (impressively).  It  means,  Mr.  Haffigan, 
maintaining  those  reforms  which  have  already  been  con- 
ferred on  humanity  by  the  Liberal  Party,  and  trusting 
for  future  developments  to  the  free  activity  of  a  free 
people  on  the  basis  of  those  reforms. 

DoRAN.  Dhats  right.  No  more  meddlin.  We're  all 
right  now:  all  we  want  is  to  be  let  alone. 

Cornelius.     Hwat  about  Home  Rule? 

Broadbent  (rising  so  as  to  address  them  more 
imposingly).  I  really  cannot  tell  you  what  I  feel 
about  Home  Rule  without  using  the  language  of  hyper- 
bole. 

DoRAN.     Savin  Fadher  Dempsey's  presence,  eh? 

Broadbent  (not  understanding  him).  Quite  so — er 
— oh  yes.  All  I  can  say  is  that  as  an  Englishman  I 
blush  for  the  Union.  It  is  the  blackest  stain  on  our 
national  history.  I  look  forward  to  the  time — and  it 
cannot  be  far  distant,  gentlemen,  because  Humanity  is 
looking  forward  to  it  too,  and  insisting  on  it  with  no 
uncertain  voice — I  look  forward  to  the  time  when  an 
Irish  legislature  shall  arise  once  more  on  the  emerald 
pasture  of  College  Greenj  and  the  Union  Jack— that 
detestable  symbol  of  a  decadent  Imperialism — be  re- 
placed by  a  flag  as  green  as  the  island  over  which  it 
waves — a  flag  on  which  we  shall  ask  for  England  only 
a  modest  quartering  in  memory  of  our  great  party  and 
of  the  immortal  name  of  our  grand  old  leader. 

Doran  (enthusiastically).  Dhats  the  style,  begob ! 
(He  sinites  his  knee,  and  ivinhs  at  Mat.) 

Matthew.     More  power  to  you,  sir ! 

Broadbent.      I   shall  leave  you  now,   gentlemen,  to 


76  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

your  deliberations.  I  should  like  to  have  enlarged  on 
the  services  rendered  by  the  Liberal  Party  to  the  re- 
ligious faith  of  the  great  majority  of  the  people  of 
Ireland;  but  I  shall  content  myself  with  saying  that  in 
my  opinion  you  should  choose  no  representative  who — 
no  matter  what  his  personal  creed  may  be — is  not  an 
ardent  supporter  of  freedom  of  conscience,  and  is  not 
prepared  to  prove  it  by  contributions,  as  lavish  as  his 
means  will  allow,  to  the  great  and  beneficent  work  which 
you,  Father  Dempsey  (Father  Dempsey  hows),  are  do- 
ing for  the  people  of  Rosscullen.  Xor  should  the  lighter, 
but  still  most  important  question  of  the  sports  of  the 
people  be  forgotten.     The  local  cricket  club — 

Cornelius.     The  hwat! 

DoRAX,  Nobody  plays  batn  ball  here,  if  dhats  what 
you  mean. 

Broadbent.  Well,  let  us  say  quoits.  I  saw  two  men, 
I  think,  last  night — but  after  all,  these  are  questions  of 
detail.  The  main  thing  is  that  your  candidate,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  shall  be  a  man  of  some  means,  able  to 
help  the  locality  instead  of  burdening  it.  And  if  he 
were  a  countryman  of  my  own,  the  moral  effect  on  the 
House  of  Commons  would  be  immense !  tremendous ! 
Pardon  my  saying  these  few  words:  nobody  feels 
their  impertinence  more  than  I  do.  Good  morning, 
gentlemen. 

He  turns  impressively  to  the  gate,  and  trots  away, 
congratulating  himself,  with  a  little  twist  of  his  head 
and  cock  of  his  eye,  on  having  done  a  good  stroke  of 
political  business. 

Haffigan   (awestruck).     Good  morning,  sir. 

The  Rest.  Good  morning.  (They  watch  him 
vacantly  until  he  is  out  of  earshot.) 

Cornelius.     Hwat  d'ye  think.  Father  Dempsey? 

Father  Dempsey  (indulgently).  Well,  he  hasnt 
much  sense,  God  help  him;  but  for  the  matter  o  that, 
neither  has  our  present  member. 


Act  III        John  Bull's  Other  Island  77 

DoRAN.  Arra  musha  hes  good  enough  for  parlia- 
ment: what  is  there  to  do  tliere  but  gas  a  bit,  an  chivy 
the  Government,  an  vote  wi  dh  Irish  party? 

Cornelius  (rujiiinatively).  He's  the  queerest  Eng- 
lishman I  ever  met.  When  he  opened  the  paper  dhis 
mornin  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  that  an  English  ex- 
pedition had  been  bet  in  a  battle  in  Inja  somewhere; 
an  he  was  as  pleased  as  Punch !  Larry  told  him  that 
if  he'd  been  alive  when  the  news  o  Waterloo  came,  he'd 
a  died  o  grief  over  it.  Bedad  I  dont  think  hes  quite 
right  in  his  head. 

DoRAN.  Divil  a  matther  if  he  has  plenty  o  money. 
He'll  do  for  us  right  enough. 

Matthew  {deeply  impressed  by  Broadbent,  and  un- 
able to  understand  their  levity  concerning  him).  Did 
you  mind  what  he  said  about  rethrenchment  .'^  That  was 
very  good,  I  thought. 

Father  Dempsey.  You  might  find  out  from  Larry, 
Corny,  what  his  means  are.  God  forgive  us  all !  it's 
poor  Avork  spoiling  the  Egyptians,  though  we  have  good 
warrant  for  it;  so  I'd  like  to  know  how  much  spoil  there 
is  before  I  commit  meself.  {He  rises.  They  all  rise 
respectfully.) 

Cornelius  {ruefully).  I'd  set  me  mind  on  Larry 
himself  for  the  seat;  but  I  suppose  it  cant  be  helped. 

Father  Dempsey  {consoling  him).  Well,  the  boy's 
young  yet;  an  he  has  a  head  on  him.  Goodbye,  all. 
{He  goes  out  through  the  gate.) 

DoRAN.  I  must  be  goin,  too.  {He  directs  Cornelius's 
attention  to  what  is  passing  in  the  road.)  Look  at  me 
bould  Englishman  shakin  bans  wid  Fadher  Dempsey  for 
all  the  world  like  a  candidate  on  election  day.  And  look 
at  Fadher  Dempsey  givin  him  a  squeeze  an  a  wink  as 
much  as  to  say  Its  all  right,  me  boy.  You  watch  him 
shakin  bans  with  me  too:  hes  waitn  for  me.  I'll  tell 
him  hes  as  good  as  elected.  {He  goes,  chuckling  mis- 
chievously.) 


78  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

Cornelius.  Come  in  with  me.  Mat.  I  think  I'll  sell 
you  the  pig  after  all.     Come  in  an  wet  the  bargain. 

Matthew  {instantly  dropping  into  the  old  whine  of 
the  tenant).  I'm  afeerd  I  cant  afford  the  price,  sir. 
{He  follows  Cornelius  into  the  house.) 

Larry,  newspaper  still  in  hand,  comes  back  through 
the  shrubbery.     Broadbent  returns  through  the  gate. 

Larry.     Well?     What  has  happened. 

Broadbent  {hugely  self-satisfied).  I  think  Ive  done 
the  trick  this  time.  I  just  gave  them  a  bit  of  straight 
talk;  and  it  went  home.  They  were  greatly  impressed: 
everyone  of  those  men  believes  in  me  and  will  vote  for 
me  when  the  question  of  selecting  a  candidate  comes  up. 
After  all,  whatever  you  say,  Larry,  they  like  an  Eng- 
lishman.    They  feel  they  can  trust  him,  I  suppose. 

Larry.  Oh!  theyve  transferred  the  honor  to  you, 
have  they.'' 

Broadbent  {complacently).  Well,  it  was  a  pretty 
obvious  move,  I  should  think.  You  know,  these  fellows 
have  plenty  of  shrewdness  in  spite  of  their  Irish  oddity. 
{Hodson  comes  from  the  house.  Larry  sits  in  Doran's 
chair  and  reads.)     Oh,  by  the  way,  Hodson — 

HoDSON  {coming  between  Broadbent  and  Larry). 
Yes,  sir.'' 

Broadbent.  I  want  you  to  be  rather  particular  as  to 
how  you  treat  the  people  here. 

Hodson.  I  havnt  treated  any  of  em  yet,  sir.  If  I 
was  to  accept  all  the  treats  they  offer  me  I  shouldnt  be 
able  to  stand  at  this  present  moment,  sir. 

Broadbent.  Oh  well,  dont  be  too  stand-offish,  you 
know,  Hodson.  I  should  like  you  to  be  popular.  If  it 
costs  anything  I'll  make  it  up  to  you.  It  docsnt  matter 
if  you  get  a  bit  upset  at  first:  they  11  like  you  all  the 
better  for  it. 

Hodson.  I'm  sure  youre  very  kind,  sir;  but  it  dont 
seem  to  matter  to  me  whether  they  like  me  or  not.  I'm 
not  going  to  stand  for  parliament  here,  sir. 


Act  III       John  Bull's  Other  Island  79 

Broadbent.     Well,  I  am.     Now  do  you  understand? 

HoDSON  (rvaking  up  at  once).  Oh,  I  beg  your  par- 
don, sir,  I'm  sure.     I  imderstand,  sir. 

Cornelius  (appearing  at  the  house  door  with  Mat). 
Patsy '11  drive  the  pig  over  this  evenin,  Mat.  Goodbye. 
(He  goes  back  into  the  house.  Mat  makes  for  the  gate. 
Broadbent  stops  him.  Hodson,  pained  by  the  derelict 
basket,  picks  it  up  and  carries  it  away  behind  the 
house.) 

Broadbent  (beaming  candidatorially).  I  must  thank 
you  very  particularly,  Mr.  Haffigan,  for  your  support 
this  morning.  I  value  it  because  I  know  that  the  real 
heart  of  a  nation  is  the  class  you  represent,  the  yeo- 
manry. 

Matthew  (aghast).     The  yeomanry !! ! 

Larry  (looking  up  from  his  paper).  Take  care,  Tom! 
In  Rosscullen  a  yeoman  means  a  sort  of  Orange  Bashi- 
Bazouk.  In  England,  Mat,  they  call  a  freehold  farmer 
a  yeoman. 

Matthew  (huffily).  I  dont  need  to  be  insthructed 
be  you,  Larry  Doyle.  Some  people  think  no  one  knows 
anythin  but  dhemselves.  (To  Broadbent,  deferentially.) 
Of  course  I  know  a  gentleman  like  you  would  not  com- 
pare me  to  the  yeomanry.  JNIe  own  granfather  was 
flogged  in  the  sthreets  of  Athenmullet  be  them  when 
they  put  a  gim  in  the  thatch  of  his  house  an  then  went 
and  found  it  there,  bad  cess  to  them ! 

Broadbent  (with  sympathetic  interest).  Then  you 
are  not  the  first  martyr  of  your  family,  IVIr.  HafEgan .'' 

Matthew.  They  turned  me  out  o  the  farm  I  made 
out  of  the  stones  o  Little  Rosscullen  hill  wid  me  own 
bans. 

Broadbent.  I  have  heard  about  it;  and  my  blood 
still  boils  at  the  thought.     (Calling.)     Hodson — 

HoDsoN  (behind  the  corner  of  the  house).  Yes,  sir. 
(He  hurries  forward.) 

Broadbent.     Hodson:     this     gentleman's     sufferings 


80  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  III 

should  make  every  Englishman  think.  It  is  want  of 
thought  rather  than  want  of  heart  that  allows  such 
iniquities  to  disgrace  society. 

HoDSON  (prosaically).     Yes  sir. 

Matthew.  Well,  I'll  be  go  in.  Good  morning  to  you 
kindly,  sir. 

Broadbent.  You  have  some  distance  to  go,  Mr. 
Haffigan :  will  you  allow  me  to  drive  you  home  ? 

Matthew.     Oh  sure  it'd  be  throublin  your  honor. 

Broadbent.  I  insist:  it  will  give  me  the  greatest 
pleasure,  I  assure  you.  ISIy  car  is  in  the  stable:  I  can 
get  it  round  in  five  minutes. 

Matthew.  Well,  sir,  if  you  wouldnt  mind,  we  could 
bring  the  pig  Ive  just  bought  from  Corny — 

Broadbent  (with  enthusiasm).  Certainly,  Mr.  Haffi- 
gan: it  will  be  quite  delightful  to  drive  with  a  pig  in 
the  car:  I  shall  feel  quite  like  an  Irishman.  Hodson: 
stay  with  Mr.  Haffigan;  and  give  him  a  hand  with  the 
pig  if  necessary.  Come,  Larry;  and  help  me.  (He 
rushes  away  through  the  shrubbery.) 

Larry  (throwing  the  paper  ill-humoredly  on  the 
chair).  Look  here,  Tom!  here,  I  say!  confound  it!  (he 
runs  after  him). 

Matthew  (glowering  disdainfully  at  Hodson,  and  sit- 
ting down  on  Cornelius's  chair  as  an  act  of  social  self- 
assertion).     N  are  you  the  valley.'' 

HoDsoN.  The  valley.''  Oh,  I  follow  you:  yes:  I'm 
Mr.  Broadbent's  valet. 

Matthew.  Ye  have  an  aisy  time  of  it:  you  look 
purty  sleek.  (With  suppressed  ferocity.)  Look  at  m  e ! 
Do  I  look  sleek  .^ 

HoDsoN  (sadly).  I  wish  I  ad  your  ealth:  you  look 
as  hard  as  nails.  I  suffer  from  an  excess  of  uric 
acid. 

Matthew.  Musha  what  sort  o  disease  is  zhouragas- 
sid?  Didjever  suffer  from  injustice  and  starvation? 
Dhats  the  Irish  disease.     Its  aisy  for  you  to  talk  o  suf- 


Act  III       John  Bull's  Other  Island  81 

ferin^  an  you  livin  on  the  fat  o  the  land  wid  money 
wrung  from  us. 

HoDsoN  (coolly).  Wots  wrong  with  you,  old  chap? 
Has  ennybody  been  doin  ennything  to  you? 

Matthew.  Anj-thin  timme !  Didnt  your  English 
masther  say  that  the  blood  biled  in  him  to  hear  the  way 
they  put  a  rint  on  me  for  the  farm  I  made  wid  me 
own  hans,  and  turned  me  out  of  it  to  give  it  to  Billy 
Byrne  ? 

HoDsoN.  Ow,  Tom  Broadbent's  blood  boils  pretty 
easy  over  ennything  that  appens  out  of  his  own  country. 
Dont  you  be  taken  in  by  my  ole  man,  Paddy. 

Matthew  (indignantly).  Paddy  yourself !  How  dar 
you  call  me  Paddy? 

HoDsoN  (unmoved).  You  just  keep  your  hair  on  and 
listen  to  me.  You  Irish  people  are  too  well  off:  thats 
whats  the  matter  with  you.  (With  sudden  passion.) 
You  talk  of  your  rotten  little  farm  because  you  made 
it  by  chuckin  a  few  stownes  dahn  a  hill!  Well,  wot 
price  my  grenfa^vther,  I  should  like  to  know,  that  fitted 
up  a  fuss  clawss  shop  and  built  up  a  fuss  clawss  drapery 
business  in  London  by  sixty  years  work,  and  then  was 
chucked  aht  of  it  on  is  ed  at  the  end  of  is  lease  withaht 
a  penny  for  his  goodwill.  You  talk  of  evictions !  you 
that  cawnt  be  moved  imtil  youve  run  up  eighteen  months 
rent.  I  once  ran  up  four  weeks  in  Lambeth  when  I 
was  aht  of  a  job  in  winter.  They  took  the  door  off 
its  inges  and  the  winder  aht  of  its  sashes  on  me,  and 
gave  my  wife  pnoomownia.  I'm  a  widower  now.  (Be- 
tween his  teeth.)  Gawd!  when  I  think  of  the  things  we 
Englishmen  av  to  put  up  with,  and  hear  you  Irish  hahlin 
abaht  your  silly  little  grievances,  and  see  the  way  you 
make  it  worse  for  us  by  the  rotten  wages  youll  come 
over  and  take  and  the  rotten  places  youll  sleep  in,  I 
jast  feel  that  I  could  take  the  oul  bloomin  British  awland 
and  make  you  a  present  of  it,  jast  to  let  you  find  out 
wot  real  ardship's  like. 


82  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  m 

Matthew  (starting  up,  more  in  scandalised  incre- 
dulity than  in  anger).  D'ye  have  the  face  to  set  up  Eng- 
land agen  Ireland  for  injustices  an  wrongs  an  disthress 
an  sufFerin? 

HoDSON  (with  intense  disgust  and  contempt,  but  with 
Cockney  coolness).  Ow^  chuck  it,  Paddy.  Cheese  it. 
You  danno  wot  ardship  is  over  ere:  all  you  know  is  ah 
to  ahl  abaht  it.  You  take  the  biscuit  at  that,  you  do. 
I'm  a  Owm  Ruler,  I  am.     Do  you  know  why? 

Matthew  (equally  contemptuous).  D'ye  know,  your- 
self.? 

HoDsoN,  Yes  I  do.  It's  because  I  want  a  little  at- 
tention paid  to  my  own  country;  and  thetll  never  be  as 
long  as  your  chaps  are  ollerin  at  Wesminister  as  if  now- 
body  mettered  but  your  own  bloomin  selves.  Send  em 
back  to  hell  or  C'naught,  as  good  oul  English  Cromwell 
said.  I'm  jast  sick  of  Ireland.  Let  it  gow.  Cut  the 
cable.  Make  it  a  present  to  Germany  to  keep  the  oul 
Kyzer  busy  for  a  while;  and  give  poor  owld  England  a 
chawnce:  thets  wot  I  say. 

Matthew  (full  of  scorn  for  a  man  so  ignorant  as  to 
he  unable  to  pronounce  the  word  Connaught,  which  prac- 
tically rhymes  with  bonnet  in  Ireland,  though  in  Hod- 
son's  dialect  it  rhymes  with  untaught).  Take  care  we 
dont  cut  the  cable  ourselves  some  day,  bad  scran  to  you ! 
An  tell  me  dhis:  have  yanny  Coercion  Acs  in  England? 
Have  yanny  removables?  Have  you  Dublin  Castle  to 
suppress  every  newspaper  dhat  takes  the  part  o  your 
own  counthry? 

HoDsoN.  We  can  beyave  ahrselves  withaht  sich 
things. 

Matthew.  Bedad  youre  right.  It'd  only  be  waste 
o  time  to  muzzle  a  sheep.  Here!  where's  me  pig?  God 
forgimme  for  talkin  to  a  poor  ignorant  craj^cher  like 
you. 

HoDSON  (grinning  with  good-humored  malice,  too 
convinced   of   his   own   superiority    to   feel   his    withers 


Act  m       John  Bull's  Other  Island  83 

wrung).  Your  pigll  ave  a  rare  doin  in  that  car,  Paddy. 
Forty  miles  an  ahr  dahn  that  rocky  lane  will  strike  it 
pretty  pink,  you  bet. 

Matthew  (scornfully).  Hwy  cant  you  tell  a  raison- 
able  lie  when  youre  about  it?  What  horse  can  go  forty 
mile  an  hour? 

HoDsoN.  Orse !  Wy,  you  silly  oul  rotter,  it's  not  a 
orse:  it's  a  mowtor.  Do  you  suppose  Tom  Broadbent 
would  gow  ofF  himself  to  arness  a  orse? 

Matthew  (m  consternation).  Holy  Moses!  dont  tell 
me  its  the  ingine  he  wants  to  take  me  on. 

HoDsoN.    Wot  else? 

Matthew.  Your  sowl  to  Morris  Kelly!  why  didnt 
you  tell  me  that  before?  The  divil  an  ingine  he'll  get 
me  on  this  day.  {His  ear  catches  an  approaching  teuf- 
teuf.)  Oh  murdher!  its  comin  afther  me:  I  hear  the 
puff-pufF  of  it.  (He  runs  away  through  the  gate,  much 
to  Hodson's  amusement.  The  noise  of  the  motor  ceases; 
and  Hodson,  anticipating  Broadbent's  return,  throws  off 
the  politician  and  recomposes  himself  as  a  valet.  Broad- 
bent  and  Larry  come  through  the  shrubbery.  Hodson 
moves  aside  to  the  gate.) 

Broadbent.  Where  is  Mr.  Haffigan?  Has  he  gone 
for  the  pig? 

Hodson.     Bolted,  sir?     Afraid  of  the  motor,  sir. 

Broadbent  (^much  disappointed).  Oh,  thats  very 
tiresome.     Did  he  leave  any  message? 

Hodson.  He  was  in  too  great  a  hurry,  sir.  Started 
to  run  home,  sir,  and  left  his  pig  behind  him. 

Broadbent  (eagerly).  Left  the  pig!  Then  it's  all 
right.  The  pig's  the  thing:  the  pig  will  win  over  every 
Irish  heart  to  me.  We'll  take  the  pig  home  to  HaflBgan's 
farm  in  the  motor:  it  will  have  a  tremendous  effect. 
Hodson ! 

Hodson.     Yes  sir? 

Broadbent.  Do  you  think  you  could  collect  a  crowd 
to  see  the  motor? 


84  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  hi 

HoDSON.     Well;  I'll  try,  sir. 

Broadbent.     Thank  you,  Hodson:  do. 

Hodson  goes  out  through  the  gate. 

Larry  {desperately).  Once  more,  Tom,  will  you 
listen  to  me.'' 

Broadbent.  Rubbish!  I  tell  you  it  will  be  all 
right. 

Larry,  Only  this  morning  you  confessed  how  sur- 
prised you  were  to  find  that  the  people  here  shewed 
no  sense  of  humor. 

Broadbent  (suddenly  very  solemn).  Yes:  their  sense 
of  humor  is  in  abeyance:  I  noticed  it  the  moment  we 
landed.  Think  of  that  in  a  coimtry  where  every  man 
is  a  born  humorist !  Think  of  what  it  means !  (Im- 
pressively.) Larry:  we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
national  grief. 

Larry.     "Wliats  to  grieve  them? 

Broadbent.  I  divined  it,  Larry:  I  saw  it  in  their 
faces.  Ireland  has  never  smiled  since  her  hopes  were 
buried  in  the  grave  of  Gladstone. 

Larry.  Oh,  whats  the  use  of  talking  to  such  a  man? 
Now  look  here,  Tom.  Be  serious  for  a  moment  if  you 
can. 

Broadbent  (stupent).     Serious!     I!!! 

Larry.  Yes,  you.  You  say  the  Irish  sense  of  humor 
is  in  abeyance.  Well,  if  you  drive  through  Rosscullen 
in  a  motor  car  with  Haffigan's  pig,  it  wont  stay  in  abey- 
ance.    Now  I  warn  you. 

Broadbent  (^breezily).  Why,  so  much  the  better!  I 
shall  enjoy  the  joke  myself  more  than  any  of  them. 
(Shouti7ig.)     Hallo,  Patsy  Farrell,  where  are  you? 

Patsy  (appearing  in  the  shrubbery).  Here  I  am, 
your  honor. 

Broadbent.  Go  and  catch  the  pig  and  put  it  into  the 
car:  we're  going  to  take  it  to  Mr.  Haffigan's.  (He  gives 
Larry  a  slap  on  the  shoulders  that  sends  him  staggering 
off  through   the  gate,   and   follows   him   buoyantly,   ex- 


Act  III       John  Bull's  Other  Island  85 

claiming)  Come  on^  you  old  croaker!     I'll  shew  you  how 
to  win  an  Irish  seat. 

Patsy  (meditatively).  Bedad,  if  dhat  pig  gets  a 
howlt  o  the  handle  o  the  machine —  (He  shakes  his 
head  ominously  and  drifts  away  to  the  pigsty.) 


END    OF    ACT    III. 


ACT     IV 

The  parlor  in  Cornelius  Doyle's  house.  It  communi- 
cates with  the  garden  by  a  half  glased  door.  The  fire- 
place is  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  opposite  the  door 
and  windows,  the  architect  not  having  been  sensitive  to 
draughts.  The  table,  rescued  from  the  garden,  is  in  the 
middle;  and  at  it  sits  Keegan,  the  central  figure  in  a 
rather  crowded  apartment.  Nora,  sitting  with  her  back 
to  the  fire  at  the  end  of  the  table,  is  playing  backgam- 
mon  across  its  corner  with  him,  on  his  left  hand.  Aunt 
Judy,  a  little  further  back,  sits  facing  the  fire  knitting, 
with  her  feet  on  the  fender.  A  little  to  Keegan's  right, 
in  front  of  the  table,  and  almost  sitting  on  it,  is  Barney 
Doran,  Half  a  dozen  friends  of  his,  all  men,  are  be- 
tween him  and  the  open  door,  supported  by  others  out- 
side. In  the  corner  behind  them  is  the  sofa,  of  ma- 
hogany and  horsehair,  made  up  as  a  bed  for  Broadbent. 
Against  the  wall  behind  Keegan  stands  a  mahogany  side- 
board. A  door  leading  to  the  interior  of  the  house  is 
near  the  fireplace,  behind  Aunt  Judy.  There  are  chairs 
against  the  wall,  one  at  each  end  of  the  sideboard. 
Keegan's  hat  is  on  the  one  nearest  the  inner  door;  and 
his  stick  is  leaning  agaiiist  it.  A  third  chair,  also  against 
the  wall,  is  near  the  garden  door. 

There  is  a  strong  contrast  of  emotional  atmosphere 
between  the  two  sides  of  the  room.  Keegan  is  extraor- 
dinarily stern:  no  game  of  backgammon  could  possibly 
make  a  man's  face  so  grim.  Aunt  Judy  is  quietly  busy. 
Nora  is  trying  to  ignore  Doran  and  attend  to  her  game. 

On  the  other  hand  Doran  is  reeling  in  an  ecstasy  of 
85 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  87 

mischievous  mirth  which  has  infected  all  his  friends. 
They  are  screaming  with  laughter,  doubled  up,  leaning 
on  the  furniture  and  against  the  walls,  shouting,  screech- 
ing, crying. 

Aunt  Judy  {as  the  noise  lulls  for  a  moment).  Arra 
hold  your  noise,  Barney.     What  is  there  to  laugh  at? 

DoRAN.  It  got  its  fut  into  the  little  hweel —  (^he  is 
overcome  afresh;  and  the  rest  collapse  again). 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah,  have  some  sense:  youre  like  a  parcel 
o  childher.  Nora,  hit  him  a  thump  on  the  back:  he'll 
have  a  fit. 

DoRAN  (with  squeezed  eyes,  exsufflicate  with  cachin- 
nation).  Frens,  he  sez  to  dhem  outside  Doolan's:  I'm 
takin  the  gintleman  that  pays  the  rint  for  a  dhrive. 

Aunt  Judy.     Who  did  he  mean  be  that? 

DoRAN.  They  call  a  pig  that  in  England.  Thats 
their  notion  of  a  joke. 

Aunt  Judy.  Musha  God  help  them  if  they  can  joke 
no  better  than  that! 

DoRAN  {with  renewed  symptoms).     Thin — 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah  now  dont  be  tellin  it  all  over  and 
settin  yourself  off  again,  Barney. 

Nora.     Youve  told  us  three  times,  Mr,  Doran. 

DoRAN.     Well  but  whin  I  think  of  it — ! 

Aunt  Judy.     Then  dont  think  of  it,  alanna. 

DoRAN.  There  was  Patsy  Farrll  in  the  back  sate  wi 
dhe  pig  between  his  knees,  n  me  bould  English  boyoh 
in  front  at  the  machinery,  n  Larry  Doyle  in  the  road 
startin  the  injine  wid  a  bed  winch.  At  the  first  puff  of 
it  the  pig  lep  out  of  its  skin  and  bled  Patsy's  nose  wi 
dhe  ring  in  its  snout.  (Roars  of  laughter:  Keegan 
glares  at  them.)  Before  Broadbint  knew  hwere  he  was, 
the  pig  was  up  his  back  and  over  into  his  lap;  and 
bedad  the  poor  baste  did  credit  to  Corny's  thrainin  of 
it;  for  it  put  in  the  fourth  speed  wid  its  right  crubecn 
as  if  it  was  enthered  for  the  Gordn  Bennett. 


88  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Nora  {reproachfully).  And  Larry  in  front  of  it  and 
all !     It's  nothin  to  laugh  at,  Mr.  Doran. 

DoRAN.  Bedad,  Miss  Reilly,  Larry  cleared  six  yards 
backwards  at  wan  jump  if  he  cleared  an  inch;  and  he'd 
a  cleared  seven  if  Doolan's  granmother  hadnt  cotch  him 
in  her  apern  widhout  intindin  to.  {Immense  merriment.) 

Aunt  Judy.  Ah^  for  shame,  Barney!  the  poor  old 
woman !  An  she  was  hurt  before,  too,  when  she  slipped 
on  the  stairs. 

Doran.  Bedad,  maam,  shes  hurt  behind  now;  for 
Larry  bouled  her  over  like  a  skittle.  {General  delight 
at  this  typical  stroke  of  Irish  Rahelaisianism.) 

Nora.     It's  well  the  lad  wasnt  killed. 

DoRAN.  Faith  it  wasnt  o  Larry  we  were  thinkin  jus 
dhen,  wi  dhe  pig  takin  the  main  sthreet  o  Rosscullen  on 
market  day  at  a  mile  a  minnit.  Dh  ony  thing  Broadbint 
could  get  at  wi  dhe  pig  in  front  of  him  was  a  fut  brake; 
n  the  pig's  tail  was  undher  dhat ;  so  that  whin  he  thought 
he  was  putn  non  the  brake  he  was  ony  squeezin  the 
life  out  o  the  pig's  tail.  The  more  he  put  the 
brake  on  the  more  the  pig  squealed  n  the  fasther  he 
dhruv. 

Aunt  Judy.  Why  couldnt  he  throw  the  pig  out  into 
the  road.'* 

Doran.  Sure  he  couldnt  stand  up  to  it,  because  he 
was  spanchelled-like  between  his  seat  and  dhat  thing 
like  a  wheel  on  top  of  a  stick  between  his  knees. 

Aunt  Judy.     Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! 

Nora.  I  dont  know  how  you  can  laugh.  Do  you, 
Mr.  Keegan? 

Keegan  {grimly).  Why  not?  There  is  danger, 
destruction,  torment!  What  more  do  we  want  to  make 
us  merry?  Go  on,  Barney:  the  last  drops  of  joy  are 
not  squeezed  from  the  story  yet.  Tell  us  again  how 
our  brother  was  torn  asunder. 

Doran  {puzzled).     Whose  bruddher? 

Keeoan.     Mine. 


X«9 


s  OtJaer  I^md 

boaiieiiiirniD.    Boil 


^«im 


pleas^ 


^  ^T^ixa  siT 


■£ 


90  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

in  Me  pig,  me  pig!  n  the  polus  takin  the  number  o  the 
car,  n  not  a  man  in  the  town  able  to  speak  for  laughin — 

Keegan  (with  intense  emphasis).  It  is  hell:  it  is  hell. 
Nowhere  else  could  such  a  scene  be  a  burst  of  happiness 
for  the  people. 

Cornelius  comes  in  hastily  from  the  garden,  pushing 
his  rvay  through  the  little  crowd. 

Cornelius.  Whisht  your  laughin,  boys !  Here  he  is. 
(7/e  puts  his  hat  on  the  sideboard,  and  goes  to  the  -fire- 
place, where  he  posts  himself  with  his  back  to  the  chim- 
ney piece.) 

Aunt  Judy.     Remember  your  behavior,  now. 

Everybody  becomes  silent,  solemn,  concerned,  sym- 
pathetic. Broadbent  enters,  soiled  and  disordered  as  to 
his  motoring  coat:  immensely  important  and  serious  as 
to  himself.  He  makes  his  way  to  the  end  of  the  table 
nearest  the  garden  door,  whilst  Larry,  who  accompanies 
him,  throws  his  motoring  coat  on  the  sofa  bed,  and  sits 
down,  watching  the  proceedings. 

Broadbent  {taking  off  his  leather  cap  with  dignity 
and  placing  it  on  the  table).  I  hope  you  have  not  been 
anxious  about  me. 

Aunt  Judy.  Deedn  we  have,  Mr.  Broadbent.  Its  a 
mercy  you  werent  killed. 

DoRAN.  Kilt!  Its  a  mercy  dheres  two  bones  of  you 
left  houldin  together.  How  dijjescape  at  all  at  all.'' 
Well,  I  never  thought  I'd  be  so  glad  to  see  you  safe  and 
sound  again.  Not  a  man  in  the  town  would  say  less 
(murmurs  of  kindly  assent).  Wont  you  come  down  to 
Doolan's  and  have  a  dhrop  o  brandy  to  take  the  shock 
off.?' 

Broadbent.  Youre  all  really  too  kind;  but  the  shock 
has  quite  passed  off. 

Doran  (jovially).  Never  mind.  Come  along  all  the 
same  and  tell  us  about  it  over  a  frenly  glass. 

Broadbent.  May  I  say  how  deeply  I  feel  the  kind- 
ness with  which  I  have  been  overwhelmed  since  my  acci- 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  91 

dent?  I  can  truthfully  declare  that  I  am  glad  it  hap- 
penedj  because  it  has  brought  out  the  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy of  the  Irish  character  to  an  extent  I  had  no  con- 
ception of. 

Several    \^^^'  ^"^®  y^""*^  welcome! 

p  -|  Sure  its  only  natural. 

I  Sure  you  might  have  been  kilt. 

A  young  man,  an  the  point  of  bursting,  hurries  out. 
Barney  puts  an  iron  constraint  on  his  features. 

Broadbent.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I  wish  I  could 
drink  the  health  of  everyone  of  you. 

DoRAN.     Dhen  come  an  do  it. 

Broadbent  (very  solemnly).     No:  I  am  a  teetotaller. 

Aunt  Judy  (incredulously').     Arra  since  when.'' 

Broadbent.  Since  this  morning.  Miss  Doyle.  I 
have  had  a  lesson  {he  looks  at  Nora  significantly)  that 
I  shall  not  forget.  It  may  be  that  total  abstinence  has 
already  saved  my  life ;  for  I  was  astonished  at  the  steadi- 
ness of  my  nerves  when  death  stared  me  in  the  face  to- 
day. So  I  will  ask  you  to  excuse  me.  (He  collects  him- 
self for  a  speech.)  Gentlemen:  I  hope  the  gravity  of 
the  peril  through  which  we  have  all  passed — for  I  know 
that  the  danger  to  the  bystanders  was  as  great  as  to 
the  occupants  of  the  car — will  prove  an  earnest  of  closer 
and  more  serious  relations  between  us  in  the  future.  We 
have  had  a  somewhat  agitating  day:  a  valuable  and 
innocent  animal  has  lost  its  life:  a  public  building  has 
been  wrecked:  an  aged  and  infirm  lady  has  suffered  an 
impact  for  which  I  feel  personally  responsible,  though 
my  old  friend  Mr.  Laurence  Doyle  unfortunately  in- 
curred the  first  effects  of  her  very  natural  resentment. 
I  greatly  regret  the  damage  to  Mr.  Patrick  Farrell's 
fingers;  and  I  have  of  course  taken  care  that  he  shall 
not  suffer  pecuniarily  by  his  mishap.  (Murmurs  of  ad- 
miration at  his  magnanimity ,  and  A  Voice  "  Youre  a 
gentleman,  sir.")  I  am  glad  to  say  that  Patsy  took  it 
like  an   Irishman,  and,   far   from  expressing   any   vin- 


92  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

dictive  feeling,  declared  his  willingness  to  break  all  his 
fingers  and  toes  for  me  on  the  same  terms  {subdued 
applause,  and  "More  power  to  Patsy!").  Gentlemen: 
I  felt  at  home  in  Ireland  from  the  first  (rising  excite- 
ment among  his  hearers).  In  every  Irish  breast  I  have 
found  that  spirit  of  liberty  (A  cheery  voice  "  Hear 
Hear "),  that  instinctive  mistrust  of  the  Government 
(A  small  pious  voice,  with  intense  expression,  "  God 
bless  3'ou,  sir!"),  that  love  of  independence  {A  defiant 
voice,  "  Thats  it!  Independence!  "),  that  indignant  sym- 
pathy with  the  cause  of  oppressed  nationalities  abroad 
(A  threatening  growl  from  all:  the  ground-swell  of 
patriotic  passion),  and  with  the  resolute  assertion  of 
personal  rights  at  home,  which  is  all  but  extinct  in  my 
own  country.  If  it  were  legally  possible  I  should  be- 
come a  naturalized  Irishman;  and  if  ever  it  be  my  good 
fortune  to  represent  an  Irish  constituency  in  parliament, 
it  shall  be  my  first  care  to  introduce  a  Bill  legalizing 
such  an  operation.  I  believe  a  large  section  of  the  Lib- 
eral party  would  avail  themselves  of  it.  (Momentary 
scepticism.)  I  do.  (Convulsive  cheering.)  Gentle- 
men: I  have  said  enough.  (Cries  of  "Go  on.")  No: 
I  have  as  yet  no  right  to  address  you  at  all  on  political 
subjects;  and  we  must  not  abuse  the  warmhearted  Irish 
hospitality  of  Miss  Doyle  by  turning  her  sittingroom 
into  a  public  meeting. 

DoRAN  (energetically).  Three  cheers  for  Tom 
Broadbent,  the  future  member  for  Rosscullen ! 

Aunt  Judy  (tvaving  a  half  knitted  sock).  Hip  hip 
hurray ! 

The  cheers  are  given  with  great  heartiness,  as  it  is 
by  this  time,  for  the  more  humorous  spirits  present,  a 
question  of  vociferation  or  internal  rupture. 

Broadbent.  Thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  friends. 

Nora  (whispering  to  Doran).  Take  them  away,  Mr. 
Doran  (Doran  nods). 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  93 

DoRAN.  Well,  good  evenin,  Mr.  Broadbent;  an  may 
you  never  regret  the  day  you  wint  dhrivin  wid  Haffigan's 
pig!     {They  shake  hands.)     Good  evenin.  Miss  Doyle. 

General  handshaking,  Broadbent  shaking  hands  with 
everybody  effusively.  He  accompanies  them  to  the  gar- 
den and  can  he  heard  outside  saying  Goodnight  in  every 
inflexion  known  to  parliamentary  candidates.  Nora, 
Aunt  Judy,  Keegan,  Larry,  and  Cornelius  are  left  in  the 
parlor.  Larry  goes  to  the  threshold  and  watches  the 
scene  in  the  garden. 

Nora.  It's  a  shame  to  make  game  of  him  like  that. 
Hes  a  gradle  more  good  in  him  than  Barney  Doran. 

Cornelius.  It's  all  up  with  his  candidature.  He'll 
be  laughed  out  o  the  town. 

Larry  {turning  quickly  from  the  doorway).  Oh  no 
he  wont:  hes  not  an  Irishman.  He'll  never  know  theyre 
laughing  at  him;  and  while  theyre  laughing  he'll  win 
the  seat. 

Cornelius.  But  he  cant  prevent  the  story  getting 
about. 

Larry.  He  wont  want  to.  He'll  tell  it  himself  as 
one  of  the  most  providential  episodes  in  the  history  of 
England  and  Ireland. 

Aunt  Judy.  Sure  he  wouldnt  make  a  fool  of  himself 
like  that. 

Larry.  Are  you  sure  hes  such  a  fool  after  all,  Aunt 
Judy  ?  Suppose  you  had  a  vote  !  which  would  you  rather 
give  it  to .''  the  man  that  told  the  story  of  Haffigan's  pig 
Barney  Doran's  way  or  Broadbent's  way.^* 

Aunt  Judy.  Faith  I  wouldnt  give  it  to  a  man  at  all. 
It's  a  few  women  they  want  in  parliament  to  stop  their 
foolish  blather. 

Broadbent  {bustling  into  the  room,  and  taking  off 
his  damaged  motoring  overcoat,  which  he  puts  down  on 
the  sofa).  Well,  that's  over.  I  must  apologize  for 
making  that  speech.  Miss  Doyle;  but  they  like  it,  you 
know.     Everything  helps  in  electioneering. 


94  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Larrij  takes  the  chair  near  the  door;  draws  it  near  the 
table;  and  sits  astride  it,  with  his  elborvs  folded  on  the 
back. 

Aunt  Judy.  I'd  no  notion  you  were  such  an  orator, 
Mr.  Broadbent. 

Broadbent.  Oh,  it's  only  a  knack.  One  picks  it  up 
on  the  platform.     It  stokes  up  their  enthusiasm. 

Aunt  Judy.  Oh,  I  forgot.  Youve  not  met  Mr. 
Keegan.     Let  me  introjooce  you. 

Broadbent  (shaking  hands  effusively).  Most  happy 
to  meet  you,  -Sir.  Keegan.  I  have  heard  of  you,  though 
I  have  not  liad  the  pleasure  of  shaking  your  hand  before. 
And  now  may  I  ask  you — for  I  value  no  man's  opinion 
more — what  you  think  of  my  chances  here. 

Keegan  (coldly).  Your  chances,  sir,  are  excellent. 
You  will  get  into  parliament. 

Broadbent  (delighted).  I  hope  so.  I  think  so. 
(Fluctuating.)  You  really  think  so?  You  are  sure  you 
are  not  allowing  your  enthusiasm  for  our  principles  to 
get  the  better  of  your  judgment? 

Keegan.  I  have  no  enthusiasm  for  your  principles, 
sir.  You  will  get  into  parliament  because  you  want 
to  get  into  it  badly  enough  to  be  prepared  to  take  the 
necessary  steps  to  induce  the  people  to  vote  for  you. 
That  is  how  people  usually  get  into  that  fantastic  as- 
sembly. 

Broadbent  (puzzled).  Of  course.  (Pause.)  Quite 
so.  (Pause.)  Er — yes.  (Buoyant  again.)  I  think 
they  will  vote  for  me.     Eh?     Yes? 

Aunt  Judy.  Arra  why  shouldnt  they?  Look  at  the 
jieople  they  d  o  vote  for ! 

Broadbent  (encouraged).  Thats  true:  thats  very 
true.  When  I  see  the  windbags,  the  carpet-baggers,  the 
charlatans,  the  —  the  —  the  fools  and  ignoramuses  who 
corrupt  the  multitude  by  their  wealth,  or  seduce  them 
by  spouting  balderdash  to  them,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  an  honest  man  with  no  humbug  about  him,  who  will 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  95 

talk  straight  common  sense  and  take  his  stand  on  the 
solid  ground  of  principle  and  public  duty,  must  win  his 
way  with  men  of  all  classes. 

Keegan  {quietly).  Sir:  there  was  a  time,  in  my 
ignorant  youth,  when  I  should  have  called  you  a  hypo- 
crite. 

Broadbent  {reddening).     A  hypocrite ! 

Nora  {hastily).  Oh  I'm  sure  you  dont  think  any- 
thing of  the  sort,  Mr.  Keegan. 

Broadbent  {emphatically).  Thank  you.  Miss  Reilly: 
thank  you. 

Cornelius  {gloomily).  We  all  have  to  stretch  it  a 
bit  in  politics:  hwats  the  use  o  pretendin  we  dont? 

Broadbent  {stiffly).  I  hope  I  have  said  or  done 
nothing  that  calls  for  any  such  observation,  Mr.  Doyle. 
If  there  is  a  vice  I  detest — or  against  which  my  whole 
public  life  has  been  a  protest — it  is  the  vice  of  hypocrisy. 
I  would  almost  rather  be  inconsistent  than  insincere. 

Keegan.  Do  not  be  offended,  sir:  I  know  that  you 
are  quite  sincere.  There  is  a  saying  in  the  Scripture 
which  runs — so  far  as  the  memory  of  an  oldish  man 
can  carry  the  words — Let  not  the  right  side  of  your 
brain  know  what  the  left  side  doeth.  I  learnt  at  Oxford 
that  this  is  the  secret  of  the  Englishman's  strange  power 
of  making  the  best  of  both  worlds. 

Broadbent.  Surely  the  text  refers  to  our  right  and 
left  hands.  I  am  somewhat  surprised  to  hear  a  member 
of  your  Church  quote  so  essentially  Protestant  a  docu- 
ment as  the  Bible;  but  at  least  you  might  quote  it  ac- 
curately. 

Larry.  Tom:  with  the  best  intentions  youre  making 
an  ass  of  yourself.  You  dont  understand  Mr.  Keegan's 
peculiar  vein  of  humor. 

Broadbent  {instantly  recovering  his  confidence). 
Ah !  it  was  only  your  delightful  Irish  humor,  Mr. 
Keegan.  Of  course,  of  course.  How  stupid  of  me ! 
I'm   so   sorry.      {He   fats   Keegan    consolingly    on    the 


06  Jolm  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

hack.)  John  Bull's  wits  are  still  slow,  you  see.  Be- 
sides, calling  in  c  a  hypocrite  was  too  big  a  joke  to 
swallow  all  at  once,  you  know. 

Keegan.  You  must  also  allow  for  the  fact  that  I  am 
mad, 

Nora,     Ah,  dont  talk  like  that,  Mr.  Keegan. 

Broadbent  (encouraginglt/).  Not  at  all,  not  at  all. 
Only  a  whimsical  Irishman,  eh? 

Larry.     Are  you  really  mad,  Mr.  Keegan? 

ArxT  Judy  (shocked).  Oh,  Larry,  how  could  you 
ask  him  such  a  thing? 

Larry.  I  dont  think  iVIr.  Keegan  minds.  (To 
Keegan.)  Whats  the  true  version  of  the  story  of  that 
black  man  you  confessed  on  his  deathbed? 

Keegan.     What  story  have  you  heard  about  that? 

Larry,  I  am  informed  that  when  the  devil  came  for 
the  black  heathen,  he  took  off  your  head  and  turned  it 
three  times  round  before  joutting  it  on  again;  and  that 
your  head's  been  turned  ever  since. 

Nora   (reproachfully).     Larry! 

Keegan  (blandh/).  That  is  not  quite  what  occurred. 
(He  collects  himself  for  a  serious  utterance:  they  attend 
involuntarily.)  I  heard  that  a  black  man  was  dying, 
and  that  the  people  were  afraid  to  go  near  him.  When 
I  went  to  the  place  I  foimd  an  elderly  Hindoo,  who 
told  me  one  of  those  tales  of  unmerited  misfortime,  of 
cruel  ill  luck,  of  relentless  persecution  by  destiny,  which 
sometimes  wither  the  commonplaces  of  consolation  on 
the  lips  of  a  priest.  But  this  man  did  not  complain  of 
his  misfortunes.  They  were  brought  upon  him,  he  said, 
bj^  sins  committed  in  a  former  existence.  Then,  without 
a  word  of  comfort  from  me,  he  died  with  a  clear-eyed 
resignation  that  my  most  earnest  exhortations  have 
rarely  produced  in  a  Christian,  and  left  me  sitting  there 
by  his  bedside  with  the  mystery  of  this  world  suddenly 
revealed  to  me. 

Broadbent,      That   is    a    remarkable   tribute   to   the 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  97 

liberty  of  conscience  enjoyed  by  the  subjects  of  our 
Indian  Empire. 

Larry.  No  doubt;  but  may  we  venture  to  ask  what 
is  the  mystery  of  this  world? 

Keegax.  This  world,  sir,  is  very  clearly  a  place  of 
torment  and  penance,  a  place  where  the  fool  flourishes 
and  the  good  and  wise  are  hated  and  persecuted,  a  place 
where  men  and  women  torture  one  another  in  the  name 
of  love;  where  children  are  scourged  and  enslaved  in 
the  name  of  parental  duty  and  education;  where  the 
weak  in  body  are  poisoned  and  mutilated  in  the  name 
of  healing,  and  the  weak  in  character  are  put  to  the 
horrible  torture  of  imprisonment,  not  for  hours  but  for 
years,  in  the  name  of  justice.  It  is  a  place  where  the 
hardest  toil  is  a  welcome  refuge  from  the  horror  and 
tedium  of  pleasure,  and  where  charity  and  good  works 
are  done  only  for  hire  to  ransom  the  souls  of  the  spoiler 
and  the  sybarite.  Now,  sir,  there  is  only  one  place  of 
horror  and  torment  kno\vn  to  my  religion;  and  that 
place  is  hell.  Therefore  it  is  plain  to  me  that  this  earth 
of  ours  must  be  hell,  and  that  we  are  all  here,  as  the 
Indian  revealed  to  me — perhaps  he  was  sent  to  reveal 
it  to  me — to  expiate  crimes  committed  by  us  in  a  former 
existence. 

AuxT  Judy  {awestruck).  Heaven  save  us,  what  a 
thing  to  say! 

Cornelius  {sighing).  It's  a  queer  world:  thats  cer- 
tain. 

Broadbent.  Your  idea  is  a  very  clever  one,  Mr. 
Keegan:  really  most  brilliant:  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  it.  But  it  seems  to  me — if  I  may  say  so — 
that  you  are  overlooking  the  fact  that,  of  the  evils  you 
describe,  some  are  absolutely  necessary  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  society,  and  others  are  encouraged  only  when 
the  Tories  are  in  office. 

Larry.  I  expect  you  were  a  Tory  in  a  former  exist- 
ence; and  that  is  why  you  are  here. 


98  John  Bulls  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Broadbent  (with  conviction).  Never,  Larry,  never. 
But  leaving  politics  out  of  the  question,  I  find  the 
world  quite  good  enough  for  me:  rather  a  jolly  place, 
in  fact. 

Keegan  (looking  at  him  with  quiet  wonder).  You 
are  satisfied.'' 

Broadbent,  As  a  reasonable  man,  yes.  I  see  no 
evils  in  the  world — except,  of  course,  natural  evils — 
that  cannot  be  remedied  by  freedom,  self-government, 
and  English  institutions.  I  think  so,  not  because  I  am 
an  Englishman,  but  as  a  matter  of  common  sense. 

Keegan.     You  feel  at  home  in  the  world,  then.'' 

Broadbent.     Of  course.     Dont  you? 

Keegan  (from  the  very  depths  of  his  nature).     No. 

Broadbent  (breezily).  Try  phosphorus  pills.  I  al- 
ways take  them  when  my  brain  is  overworked.  I'll  give 
you  the  address  in  Oxford  Street. 

Keegan  (enigmatically:  rising).  Miss  Doyle:  my 
wandering  fit  has  come  on  me:  will  you  excuse  me.'' 

Aunt  Judy.  To  be  sure:  you  know  you  can  come  in 
n  nout  as  you  like. 

Keegan.  We  can  finish  the  game  some  other  time, 
Miss  Reilly.     (He  goes  for  his  hat  and  stick.) 

Nora.  No:  I'm  out  with  you  (she  disarranges  the 
pieces  and  rises.)  I  was  too  wicked  in  a  former  exist- 
ence to  play  backgammon  with  a  good  man  like  you. 

Aunt  Judy  (whispering  to  her).  Whisht,  whisht, 
child!     Dont  set  him  back  on  that  again. 

Keegan  (to  Nora).  When  I  look  at  you,  I  think  that 
perhaps  Ireland  is  only  purgatory,  after  all.  (He  passes 
on  to  the  garden  door.) 

Nora.     Galon g  with  j^ou  ! 

Broadbent  (whispering  to  Cornelius).  Has  he  a 
vote  ? 

Cornelius  (nodding).  Yes.  An  theres  lotsle  vote 
the  way  he  tells  them. 

Keegan    (at   the  garden   door,  with  gentle  gravity). 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  99 

Good  evening,  Mr.  Broadbent.  You  have  set  me  think- 
ing.    Thank  you. 

Broadbent  (delighted,  hurrying  across  to  him  to 
shake  hands).  No,  really?  You  find  that  contact  with 
English  ideas  is  stimulating,  eh.'' 

Keegan.  I  am  never  tired  of  hearing  you  talk,  Mr. 
Broadbent. 

Broadbent  (modestly  remonstrating).  Oh  come! 
come ! 

Keegan.  Yes,  I  assure  you.  You  are  an  extremely 
interesting  man.     (He  goes  out.) 

Broadbent  (enthusiastically).  What  a  nice  chap! 
What  an  intelligent,  interesting  fellow!  By  the  way, 
I'd  better  have  a  wash.  (He  takes  up  his  coat  and  cap, 
and  leaves  the  room  through  the  inner  door.) 

Nora  returns  to  her  chair  and  shuts  up  the  backgam- 
mon hoard. 

Aunt  Judy.  Keegan's  very  queer  to-day.  He  has 
his  mad  fit  on  him. 

Cornelius  (worried  and  hitter).  I  wouldnt  say  but 
hes  right  after  all.  It's  a  contrairy  world.  (To  Larry.) 
Why  would  you  be  such  a  fool  as  to  let  him  take  the 
seat  in  parliament  from  you.'* 

Larry  (glancing  at  Nora).  He  will  take  more  than 
that  from  me  before  hes  done  here. 

Cornelius.  I  wish  he'd  never  set  foot  in  my  house, 
bad  luck  to  his  fat  face !  D'jre  think  he'd  lend  me  £300 
on  the  farm,  Larry.'*  When  I'm  so  hard  up,  it  seems 
a  waste  o  money  not  to  mortgage  it  now  its  me 
own. 

Larry.     I  can  lend  you  £300  on  it. 

Cornelius.  No,  no:  I  wasnt  putn  in  for  that.  When 
I  die  and  leave  you  the  farm  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
feel  that  it  was  all  me  own,  and  not  half  yours  to  start 
with.  Now  I'll  take  me  oath  Barney  Doarn's  goin  to 
ask  Broadbent  to  lend  him  £500  on  the  mill  to  put  in 
a  new  hweel;  for  the  old  one'll  harly  hoi  together.     An 


100  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Haffigan  cant  sleep  with  covetn  that  corner  o  land  at 
the  foot  of  his  medda  that  belongs  to  Doolan.  He'll 
have  to  mortgage  to  buy  it.  I  may  as  well  be  first  as 
last.     D'ye  think  Broadbcnt'd  len  me  a  little.-* 

Larry.     I'm  quite  sure  he  will. 

Cornelius.  Is  he  as  ready  as  that?  Would  he  len 
me  five  hunderd,  d'ye  think  .^ 

Larry.  He'll  lend  you  more  than  the  landll  ever  be 
worth  to  you;  so  for  Heaven's  sake  be  prudent. 

Cornelius  (judicially).  All  right,  all  right,  me  son: 
I'll  be  careful.  I'm  goin  into  the  office  for  a  bit.  {He 
withdratvs  through  the  inner  door,  obviously  to  prepare 
his  application  to  Broadbent.) 

Aunt  Judy  (indignantly).  As  if  he  hadnt  seen 
enough  o  borryin  when  he  was  an  agent  without  begin- 
nin  borryin  himself!  (She  rises.)  I'll  borry  him,  so  I 
will.  (She  puts  her  knitting  on  the  table  and  folloivs 
him  out,  with  a  resolute  air  that  bodes  trouble  for  Cor- 
nelius.) 

Larry  and  Nora  are  left  together  for  the  first  time 
since  his  arrival.  She  looks  at  him  with  a  smile  that 
perishes  as  she  sees  him  aimlessly  rocking  his  chair,  and 
reflecting,  evidently  not  about  her,  with  his  lips  pursed 
as  if  he  were  whistling.  With  a  catch  in  her  throat  she 
takes  up  Aunt  Judy's  knitting,  and  makes  a  pretence  of 
going  on  with  it. 

Nora.     I  suppose  it  didnt  seem  very  long  to  you. 

Larry  (starting).     Eh?     What  didnt? 

Nora.     The  eighteen  years  youve  been  away. 

Larry.  Oh,  that!  No:  it  seems  hardly  more  than  a 
week.     I've  been  so  busy — had  so  little  time  to  tliink. 

Nora.     Ive  had  nothin  else  to  do  but  think. 

Larry.  That  was  very  bad  for  you.  Why  didnt  you 
give  it  up?     Why  did  you  stay  here? 

Nora.  Because  nobody  sent  for  me  to  go  any^vhere 
else,  I  suppose.     Thats  why. 

Larry.     Yes:  one  does  stick  frightful!}^  in  the  same 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  IsJaiid  101 

place,  unless  some  external  force  comes  and  routs  one 
out.  {He  yawns  slightly;  hut  as  she  looks  up  quickly 
at  him,  he  pulls  himself  together  and  rises  with  an  air 
of  waking  up  and  setting  to  work  cheerfully  to  make 
himself  agreeable.)  And  how  have  you  been  all  this 
time  ? 

Nora.     Quite  well,  thank  you. 

Larry.  Thats  right.  {Suddenly  finding  that  he  has 
nothing  else  to  say,  and  being  ill  at  ease  in  consequence, 
he  strolls  about  the  room  humming  a  certain  tune  from 
Offenbach's   Whitiington.) 

Nora  (struggling  with  her  tears).  Is  that  all  you 
have  to  say  to  me,  Larry? 

Larry,  Well,  what  i  s  there  to  say  ?  You  see,  we 
know  each  other  so  well. 

Nora  (a  little  consoled).  Yes:  of  course  we  do.  (He 
does  not  reply.)     I  wonder  you  came  back  at  all. 

Larry.  I  couldnt  help  it.  (She  looks  up  affection- 
ately.) Tom  made  me.  (She  looks  down  again  quickly 
to  conceal  the  effect  of  this  blow.  He  whistles  another 
stave;  then  resumes.)  I  had  a  sort  of  dread  of  return- 
ing to  Ireland.  I  felt  somehow  that  my  luck  would 
turn  if  I  came  back.  And  now  here  I  am,  none  the 
worse. 

Nora.     Praps  it's  a  little  dull  for  you. 

Larry.  No:  I  havnt  exhausted  the  interest  of  stroll- 
ing about  the  old  places  and- remembering  and  romancing 
about  them. 

Nora  (hopefully).  Oh!  You  do  remember  the  places, 
then  ? 

Larry.     Of  course.     They  have  associations. 

Nora  (not  doubting  that  the  associations  are  with 
her).     I  suppose  so. 

Larry.  M'yes.  I  can  remember  particular  spots 
where  I  had  long  fits  of  thinking  about  the  countries  I 
meant  to  get  to  when  I  escaped  from  Ireland.  America 
and  London,  and  sometimes  Rome  and  the  east. 


..IQZ  John  Buirs  Other  Island        Act  IV 

■  '  Nora  (deeply  mortified).  Was  that  all  you  used  to 
be  thinking  about? 

Larry.  Well,  there  was  precious  little  else  to  think 
about  here,  my  dear  Nora,  except  sometimes  at  sunset, 
when  one  got  maudlin  and  called  Ireland  Erin,  and 
imagined  one  was  remembering  the  days  of  old,  and  so 
forth.      (He  whistles  Let  Erin  remember.) 

XoRA.     Did  jever  get  a  letter  I  wrote  you  last  Feb- 


ruary 


Larry.  Oh  yes;  and  I  really  intended  to  answer  it. 
But  I  ha\Tnt  had  a  moment;  and  I  knew  you  wouldnt 
mind.  You  see,  I  am  so  afraid  of  boring  you  by  writing 
about  affairs  you  dont  understand  and  people  you  dont 
know!  And  yet  what  else  have  I  to  write  about?  I 
begin  a  letter;  and  then  I  tear  it  up  again.  The  fact 
is,  fond  as  we  are  of  one  another,  Xora,  we  have  so 
little  in  common — I  mean  of  course  the  things  one  can 
put  in  a  letter — that  correspondence  is  apt  to  become 
the  hardest  of  hard  work. 

Nora.  Yes:  it's  hard  for  me  to  know  anything  about 
you  if  you  never  tell  me  anything. 

Larry  (pettishly).  Nora:  a  man  cant  sit  down  and 
write  his  life  day  by  day  when  hes  tired  enough  with 
having  lived  it. 

Nora.     I'm  not  blaming  you. 

Larry  (looking  at  her  with  some  concern).  You 
seem  rather  out  of  spirits.  (Going  closer  to  her,  anx- 
iously and  tenderly.)  You  ha^^lt  got  neuralgia,  have 
you? 

Nora.     No. 

Larry  (reassured).  I  get  a  touch  of  it  sometimes 
when  I  am  below  par.  (Absently,  again  strolling  about.) 
Yes,  yes.  (He  begins  to  hum  again,  and  soon  breaks 
into  articulate  melody.) 

Though  summer  smiles  on  here  for  ever. 
Though  not  a  leaf  falls  from  the  tree. 
Tell  England  Til  forget  her  never. 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  103 

(Nora  puts  down  the  knitting  and  stares  at  him.) 

O  wind  that  blows  across  the  sea. 

(With  much  expression.) 

Tell  England  I'll  forget  her  ne-e-e-e-ver 
O  wind  that  blows  acro-oss — 

(Here  the  melody  soars  out  of  his  range.  He  con- 
tinues falsetto,  but  changes  the  tune  to  Let  Erin  re- 
member.) I'm  afraid  I'm  boring  you,  Nora,  though 
youre  too  kind  to  say  so. 

Nora.  Are  you  wanting  to  get  back  to  England  al- 
ready ? 

Larry.     Not  at  all.     Not  at  all. 

Nora.     Thats  a  queer  song  to  sing  to  me  if  youre  not. 

Larry.  The  song!  Oh,  it  doesnt  mean  anything: 
its  by  a  German  Jew,  like  most  English  patriotic  senti- 
ment. Never  mind  me,  my  dear:  go  on  with  your  work; 
and  dont  let  me  bore  you. 

Nora  (bitterly).  Rosscullen  isnt  such  a  lively  place 
that  I  am  likely  to  be  bored  by  you  at  our  first  talk 
together  after  eighteen  years,  though  you  dont  seem  to 
have  much  to  say  to  me  after  all. 

Larry.  Eighteen  years  is  a  devilish  long  time,  Nora. 
Now  if  it  had  been  eighteen  minutes,  or  even  eighteen 
months,  we  should  be  able  to  pick  up  the  interrupted 
thread,  and  chatter  like  two  magpies.  But  as  it  is,  I 
have  simply  nothing  to  say;  and  you  seem  to  have  less. 

Nora.  I —  (her  tears  choke  her;  but  she  keeps  up 
appearances  desperately). 

Larry  (quite  unconscious  of  his  cruelty).  In  a  week 
or  so  we  sliall  be  quite  old  friends  again.  Meanwhile, 
as  I  feel  that  I  am  not  making  myself  particularly  en- 
tertaining, I'll  take  myself  off.  Tell  Tom  Ive  gone  for 
a  stroll  over  the  hill. 


104  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Nora.     You  seem  very  fond  of  Tom,  as  you  call  him. 

Larry  (^the  triviality  going  suddenly  out  of  his  voice). 
Yes:  I'm  fond  of  Tom. 

Nora.     Oh,  well,  dont  let  me  keep  you  from  him. 

Larry.  I  know  quite  well  that  my  departure  will  be 
a  relief.  Rather  a  failure,  this  first  meeting  after 
eighteen  years,  eh?  Well,  never  mind:  these  great  sen- 
timental events  always  are  failures ;  and  now  the  worst 
of  it's  over  anyhow.  (He  goes  out  through  the  garden 
door.) 

Nora,  left  alone,  struggles  wildly  to  save  herself  from 
breaking  down,  and  then  drops  her  face  on  the  table 
and  gives  way  to  a  convulsion  of  crying.  Her  sobs 
shake  her  so  that  she  can  hear  nothing;  and  she  has  no 
suspicion  that  she  is  no  longer  alone  until  her  head  and 
breast  are  raised  by  Broadbent,  who,  returning  newly 
ivashed  and  combed  through  the  inner  door,  has  seen 
her  condition,  first  with  surprise  and  concern,  and  then 
with  an  emotional  disturbance  that  quite  upsets  him. 

Broadbent.  Miss  Reilly.  Miss  Reilly.  Whats  the 
matter.^  Dont  cry:  I  cant  stand  it:  you  mustnt  cry. 
(She  makes  a  choked  efort  to  speak,  so  painful  that  he 
continues  with  impulsive  sympathy.)  No:  dont  try  to 
speak:  it's  all  right  now.  Have  your  cry  out:  never 
mind  me:  trust  me.  (Gathering  her  to  him,  and  bab- 
bling consolatorily.)  Cry  on  my  chest:  the  only  really 
comfortable  place  for  a  woman  to  cry  is  a  man's  chest: 
a  real  man,  a  real  friend.  A  good  broad  chest,  eh?  not 
less  than  forty-two  inches — no:  dont  fuss:  never  mind 
the  conventions:  we're  two  friends,  arnt  we?  Come 
now,  come,  come!  Its  all  right  and  comfortable  and 
happy  now,  isnt  it? 

Nora  (through  her  tears).  Let  me  go.  I  want  me 
hankerchief. 

Broadbent  (holding  her  with  one  arm  and  producing 
a  large  silk  handkerchief  from  his  breast  pocket).  Heres 
a  handkerchief.     Let  me  (he  dabs  her  tears  dry  with  it). 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  105 

Never  mind  jonr  own:  it's  too  small:  it's  one  of  those 
wretched  little  cambric  handkerchiefs — 

Nora  (sobbing).     Indeed  it's  a  common  cotton  one. 

Broadbent.  Of  course  it's  a  common  cotton  one — 
silly  little  cotton  one — not  good  enough  for  the  dear  eyes 
of  Nora  Cryna — 

Nora  (spluttering  into  a  hysterical  laugh  and  clutch- 
ing him  convulsively  with  her  fingers  while  she  tries  to 
stifle  her  laughter  against  his  collar  bone).  Oh  dont 
make  me  laugh:  please  dont  make  me  laugh. 

Broadbent  (terrified).  I  didnt  mean  to,  on  my  soul. 
What  is  it.?    What  is  it? 

Nora.     Nora  Creena,  Nora  Creena. 

Broadbent  (patting  her).  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  Nora 
Creena,  Nora  acushla  (he  makes  cush  rhyme  to  plush)  — 

Nora.     Acushla  (she  makes  cush  rhyme  to  bush). 

Broadbent.  Oh,  confound  the  language!  Nora 
darling — my  Nora — the  Nora  I  love — 

Nora  (shocked  into  propriety).  You  mustnt  talk  like 
that  to  me. 

Broadbent  (suddenly  becoming  prodigiously  solemn 
and  letting  her  go).  No,  of  course  not.  I  dont  mean  it 
— at  least  I  d  o  mean  it ;  but  I  know  it's  premature.  I 
had  no  right  to  take  advantage  of  your  being  a  little 
upset;  but  I  lost  my  self-control  for  a  moment. 

Nora  (wondering  at  him).  I  think  youre  a  very 
kindhearted  man,  jNIr.  Broadbent;  but  you  seem  to  me 
to  have  no  self-control  at  all  (she  turns  her  face  away 
with  a  keen  pang  of  shame  and  adds)  no  more  than 
myself. 

Broadbent  (resolutely).  Oh  yes,  I  have:  you  should 
see  me  when  I  am  really  roused :  then  I  have  tre- 
mendous self-control.  Remember :  we  have  been 
alone  together  only  once  before;  and  then,  I  regret  to 
say,  I  was  in  a  disgusting  state. 

Nora.     Ah  no,  Mr.  Broadbent:  you  wernt  disgusting. 

Broadbent   (mercilessly).     Yes   I  was:  nothing  can 


106  Jolin  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

excuse  it:  perfectly  beastly.  It  must  have  made  a  most 
unfavorable  impression  on  you. 

Nora.  Ob,  sure  it's  all  right.  Say  no  more  about 
that. 

Broadbent.  I  must,  Miss  Reilly:  it  is  my  duty.  I 
shall  not  detain  you  long.  May  I  ask  you  to  sit  do-\vn. 
(He  indicates  her  chair  with  oppressive  solemnity.  She 
sits  down  wondering.  He  then,  with  the  same  por- 
tentous gravity,  places  a  chair  for  himself  near  her;  sits 
down;  and  proceeds  to  explain.)  First,  Miss  Reilly, 
may  I  say  that  I  have  tasted  nothing  of  an  alcoholic 
nature  today. 

Nora.  It  doesnt  seem  to  make  as  much  difference  in 
you  as  it  would  in  an  Irishman,  somehow. 

Broadbent.  Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  not.  I  never 
quite  lose  myself. 

Nora  {consolingly).  Well,  anyhow,  youre  all  right 
now. 

Broadbent  (fervently).  Thank  you,  Miss  Reilly:  I 
am.  Now  we  shall  get  along.  (Tenderly,  lowering  his 
voice.)  Nora:  I  was  in  earnest  last  night.  (Nora 
moves  as  if  to  rise.)  No:  one  moment.  You  must  not 
think  I  am  going  to  press  you  for  an  answer  before  you 
have  known  me  for  24  hours.  I  am  a  reasonable  man, 
I  hope;  and  I  am  prepared  to  wait  as  long  as  you  like, 
provided  you  will  give  me  some  small  assurance  that 
the  answer  will  not  be  unfavorable. 

Nora.  How  could  I  go  back  from  it  if  I  did?  I 
sometimes  think  youre  not  quite  right  in  your  head,  Mr. 
Broadbent,  you  say  such  funny  things. 

Broadbent.  Yes:  I  know  I  have  a  strong  sense  of 
humor  which  sometimes  makes  people  doubt  whether  I 
am  quite  serious.  That  is  why  I  have  always  thought 
I  should  like  to  marry  an  Irishwoman.  She  would  al- 
ways understand  my  jokes.  For  instance,  you  would 
understand  them,  eh? 

Nora  (uneasily).     Mr.  Broadbent,  I  couldnt. 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  107 

Broadbent  (soothingly).  Wait:  let  me  break  this  to 
you  gently,  Miss  Reilly:  hear  me  out.  I  daresay  you 
have  noticed  tliat  in  speaking  to  you  I  have  been  putting 
a  very  strong  constraint  on  myself,  so  as  to  avoid  wound- 
ing your  delicacy  by  too  abrupt  an  avowal  of  my  feel- 
ings. Well,  I  feel  now  that  the  time  has  come  to  be 
open,  to  be  frank,  to  be  explicit.  Miss  Reilly:  you  have 
inspired  in  me  a  very  strong  attachment.  Perhaps,  with 
a  woman's  intuition,  you  have  already  guessed  that. 

Nora  (rising  distractedly).  Why  do  you  talli  to  me 
in  that  vmfeeling  nonsensical  way? 

Broadbent  (rising  also,  much  astonished).  Unfeel- 
ing !     Nonsensical ! 

Nora.  Dont  you  know  that  you  have  said  things  to 
me  that  no  man  ought  to  say  unless — unless —  (she  sud- 
denly breaks  down  again  and  hides  her  face  on  the, 
table  as  before.)  Oh,  go  away  from  me:  I  wont  get 
married  at  all:  what  is  it  but  heartbreak  and  disap- 
pointment .'' 

Broadbent  (developing  the  most  formidable  symp- 
toms of  rage  and  grief).  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
are  going  to  refuse  me.''  that  you  dont  care  for  me.^ 

Nora  (looking  at  him  in  consternation).  Oh,  dont 
take  it  to  heart,  Mr,  Br — 

Broadbent  (flushed  and  almost  choking).  I  dont 
want  to  be  petted  and  blarneyed.  (With  childish  rage.) 
I  love  you.  I  want  you  for  my  wife.  (In  despair.)  I 
cant  help  your  refusing.  I'm  helpless:  I  can  do  noth- 
ing. You  have  no  right  to  ruin  my  whole  life.  You — 
(a  hysterical  convulsion  stops  him). 

Nora  (almost  awestruck).  Youre  not  going  to  cry, 
are  you  ?     I  never  thought  a  man  could  cry.     Dont. 

Broadbent.  I'm  not  crying.  I — I — I  leave  that  sort 
of  thing  to  your  damned  sentimental  Irishmen.  You 
think  I  have  no  feeling  because  I  am  a  plain  unemotional 
Englisliman,  with  no  powers  of  expression. 

Nora.     I  dont  think  you  know  the  sort  of  man  you 


108  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

are  at  all.  "V^Tiatever  may  be  the  matter  with  you,  it's 
not  want  of  feeling. 

Broadbent  (hurt  and  petulant).  It's  you  who  have 
no  feeling.     Youre  as  heartless  as  Larry. 

Nora.  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do.^  Is  it  to  throw 
meself  at  your  head  the  minute  the  word  is  out  o  your 
mouth  ? 

Broadbent  (striking  his  silly  head  with  his  fists). 
Oh,  what  a  fool!  what  a  brute  I  am!  It's  only  your 
Irish  delicacy:  of  course,  of  course.  You  mean  Yes. 
Eh?    What?    Yes,  yes,  yes? 

Nora.  I  think  you  might  imderstand  that  though  I 
might  choose  to  be  an  old  maid,  I  could  never  marry 
anybody  but  you  now. 

Broadbext  (clasping  her  violently  to  his  breast, 
with  a  crow  of  immense  relief  and  triumph).  Ah,  thats 
right,  thats  right:  thats  magnificent.  I  knew  you  would 
see  what  a  first-rate  thing  this  will  be  for  both  of  us. 

Nora  (incommoded  and  not  at  all  enraptured  by  his 
ardor).  Youre  dreadfully  strong,  an  a  gradle  too  free 
with  your  strength.  An  I  never  thought  o  whether  it'd 
be  a  good  thing  for  us  or  not.  But  when  you  found 
me  here  that  time,  I  let  you  be  kind  to  me,  and  cried 
in  your  arms,  because  I  was  too  wretched  to  think  of 
anything  but  the  comfort  of  it.  An  how  could  I  let 
any  other  man  touch  me  after  that? 

Broadbent  (touched).  Now  thats  very  nice  of  you, 
Nora:  thats  really  most  delicately  womanly  (he  kisses 
her  hand  chivalrously). 

Nora  (looking  earnestly  and  a  little  doubtfully  at 
him).  Surely  if  you  let  one  woman  cry  on  you  like 
that  youd  never  let  another  touch  you. 

Broadbent  (conscientiously) .  One  should  not.  One 
ought  not,  my  dear  girl.  But  the  honest  truth  is,  if 
a  chap  is  at  all  a  pleasant  sort  of  chap,  his  chest  becomes 
a  fortification  that  has  to  stand  many  assaults:  at  least 
it  is  so  in  England. 


Act  IV        John  Bull's  Other  Island  109 

Nora  {curtly,  much  disgusted).  Then  youd  better 
marry  an  Englishwoman. 

Broadbent  {mahing  a  wry  face).  No,  no:  the  Eng- 
lishwoman is  too  prosaic  for  my  taste,  too  material,  too 
much  of  the  animated  beefsteak  about  her.  The  ideal 
is  what  I  like.  Now  Larry's  taste  is  just  the  opposite: 
he  likes  em  solid  and  bouncing  and  rather  keen  about 
him.  It's  a  very  convenient  diiference;  for  weve  never 
been  in  love  with  the  same  woman. 

Nora.  An  d'ye  mean  to  tell  me  to  me  face  that  youve 
ever  been  in  love  before  ? 

Broadbent.     Lord!  yes. 

Nora.     I'm  not  your  first  love? 

Broadbent.  First  love  is  only  a  little  foolishness 
and  a  lot  of  curiosity:  no  really  self-respecting  woman 
would  take  advantage  of  it.  No,  my  dear  Nora:  Ive 
done  with  all  that  long  ago.  Love  affairs  always  end 
in  rows.  We're  not  going  to  have  any  rows :  we're  going 
to  have  a  solid  four-square  home:  man  and  wife:  com- 
fort and  common  sense — and  plenty  of  affection,  eh  {he 
puts  his  arm  round  her  with  confident  proprietorship)  ? 

Nora  {coldly,  trying  to  get  away).  I  dont  want  any 
other  woman's  leavings. 

Broadbent  {holding  her).  Nobody  asked  you  to, 
maam.     I  never  asked  any  woman  to  marry  me  before. 

Nora  {severely).  Then  why  didnt  you  if  youre  an 
honorable  man.'' 

Broadbent.  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  they  were 
mostly  married  already.  But  never  mind!  there  was 
nothing  wrong.  Come !  dont  take  a  mean  advantage  of 
me.  After  all,  you  must  have  had  a  fancy  or  two  your- 
self, eh? 

Nora  {conscience-stricken).  Yes.  I  suppose  Ive  no 
right  to  be  particular. 

Broadbent  {humbly).  I  know  I'm  not  good  enough 
for  you,  Nora.  But  no  man  is,  you  laiow,  when  the 
woman  is  a  really  nice  woman. 


110  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

Nora.  Oh,  I'm  no  better  than  yourself.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  about  it. 

Broadbent.  No,  no:  lets  have  no  telling:  much  bet- 
ter not.  /  shant  tell  you  anything ;  dont  you  tell  m  e 
anything.  Perfect  confidence  in  one  another  and  no 
tellings:  thats  the  way  to  avoid  rows. 

Nora.  Dont  think  it  was  anything  I  need  be  ashamed 
of. 

Broadbent.     I  dont. 

Nora.  It  was  only  that  I'd  never  known  anybody 
else  that  I  could  care  for;  and  I  was  foolish  enough 
once  to  think  that  Larry — 

Broadbent  {disposing  of  the  idea  at  once).  Larry! 
Oh,  that  wouldnt  have  done  at  all,  not  at  all.  You  dont 
know  Larry  as  I  do,  my  dear.  He  has  absolutely  no 
capacity  for  enjoyment:  he  couldnt  make  any  woman 
happy.  He's  as  clever  as  be-blowed;  but  life's  too 
earthly  for  him:  he  doesnt  really  care  for  anything  or 
anybody. 

Nora.     Ive  found  that  out. 

Broadbent.  Of  course  you  have.  No,  my  dear:  take 
my  word  for  it,  youre  jolly  well  out  of  that.  There! 
(swinging  her  round  against  his  breast)  thats  much 
more  comfortable  for  you. 

Nora  (with  Irish  peevishness).  Ah,  you  mustnt  go 
on  like  that.     I  dont  like  it. 

Broadbent  (unabashed).  YouU  acquire  the  taste  by 
degrees.  You  mustnt  mind  me:  it's  an  absolute  neces- 
sity of  my  nature  that  I  should  have  somebody  to  hug 
occasionally.  Besides,  it's  good  for  you:  itU  plump  out 
your  muscles  and  make  em  elastic  and  set  up  your 
figure. 

Nora.  Well,  I'm  sure !  if  this  is  English  manners ! 
Arnt  you  ashamed  to  talk  about  such  things? 

Broadbent  (in  the  highest  feather).  Not  a  bit.  By 
George,  Nora,  its  a  tremendous  thing  to  be  able  to  enjoy 
oneself.     Lets  go  off  for  a  walk  out  of  this  stuffy  little 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  111 

room.  I  want  the  open  air  to  expand  in.  Come  along. 
Co-o-o-me  along.  {He  puts  her  arm  into  his  and  sweeps 
her  out  into  the  garden  as  an  equinoctial  gale  might 
sweep  a  dry  leaf.) 

Later  in  the  evening,  the  grasshopper  is  again  enjoy- 
in  o-  the  sunset  by  the  great  stone  on  the  hill;  hut  this 
time  he  enjoys  neither  the  stimulus  of  Keegan's  con- 
versation nor  the  pleasure  of  terrifying  Patsy  Farrell. 
He  is  alone  until  Nora  and  Broadbent  come  up  the  hill 
arm  in  arm.  Broadbent  is  still  breezy  and  confident; 
but  she  has  her  head  averted  from  him  and  is  almost  in 
tears. 

Broadbent  (stopping  to  snuff  up  the  hillside  air). 
Ah!  I  like  this  spot.  I  like  this  view.  This  would  be 
a  jolly  good  place  for  a  hotel  and  a  golf  links.  Friday 
to  Tuesday,  railway  ticket  and  hotel  all  inclusive.  I 
tell  you,  Nora,  I'm  going  to  develop  this  place.  (Look- 
ing at  her.)     Hallo!     Whats  the  matter.?     Tired? 

Nora  (unable  to  restrain  her  tears).  I'm  ashamed 
out  o  me  life. 

Broadbent  (astonished).     Ashamed!     What  of? 

Nora.  Oh,  how  could  you  drag  me  all  round  the 
place  like  that,  telling  everybody  that  we're  going  to  be 
married,  and  introjoocing  me  to  the  lowest  of  the  low, 
and  letting  them  shake  bans  with  me,  and  encouraging 
them  to  make  free  with  us?  I  little  thought  I  should 
live  to  be  shaken  bans  with  be  Doolan  in  broad  daylight 
in  the  public  street  of  Rosscullen. 

Broadbent.  But,  my  dear,  Doolan's  a  publican:  a 
most  influential  man.  By  the  way,  I  asked  him  if  his 
wife  would  be  at  home  tomorrow.  He  said  she  would; 
so  you  must  take  the  motor  car  round  and  call  on  her. 

Nora  (aghast).     Is  it  me  call  on  Doolan's  wife! 

Broadbent.  Yes,  of  course:  call  on  all  their  wives. 
We  must  get  a  copy  of  the  register  and  a  supply  of 
canvassing- cards.  No  use  calling  on  people  who  havnt 
votes.     YouU  be  a  great  success  as  a  canvasser,  Nora: 


112  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

they  call  you  the  heiress;  and  theyll  be  flattered  no  end 
by  your  calling,  especially  as  youve  never  cheapened 
yourself  by  speaking  to  them  before — have  you? 

Nora   {indignantly).     Not  likely,  indeed. 

Broadbext.  Well,  we  mustnt  be  stiff  and  stand-off, 
you  know.  We  must  be  thoroughly  democratic,  and 
patronize  everybody  without  distinction  of  class.  I  tell 
you  I'm  a  jolly  lucky  man,  Nora  Cryna.  I  get  engaged 
to  the  most  delightful  woman  in  Ireland;  and  it  turns 
out  that  I  couldnt  have  done  a  smarter  stroke  of  elec- 
tioneering. 

Nora.  An  would  you  let  me  demean  meself  like  that, 
just  to  get  yourself  into  parliament? 

Broadbent  {buoyantly).  Aha!  Wait  till  you  find 
out  what  an  exciting  game  electioneering  is:  youll  be 
mad  to  get  me  in.  Besides,  youd  like  people  to  say  that 
Tom  Broadbent's  wife  had  been  the  making  of  him — 
that  she  got  him  into  parliament — into  the  Cabinet,  per- 
haps, eh? 

Nora.  God  knows  I  dont  grudge  you  me  money! 
But  to  lower  meself  to  the  level  of  common  people — 

Broadbent.  To  a  member's  wife,  Nora,  nobody  is 
common  provided  hes  on  the  register.  Come,  my  dear ! 
its  all  right:  do  you  think  I'd  let  you  do  it  if  it  wasnt? 
The  best  people  do  it.     Everybody  does  it. 

Nora  {who  has  been  biting  her  Up  and  looking  over 
the  hill,  disconsolate  and  unconvinced).  Well,  praps  you 
know  best  what  they  do  in  England.  They  must  have 
very  little  respect  for  themselves.  I  think  I'll  go  in 
now.  I  see  Larry  and  Mr.  Keegan  coming  up  the  hill; 
and  I'm  not  fit  to  talk  to  them. 

Broadbent.  Just  wait  and  say  something  nice  to 
Keegan.  They  tell  me  he  controls  nearly  as  many  votes 
as  Father  Dempsey  himself. 

Nora.  You  little  know  Peter  Keegan.  He'd  see 
through  me  as  if  I  was  a  pane  o  glass. 

Broadbent.      Oh,  he  wont  like  it  any  the  less   for 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  113 

that.  What  really  flatters  a  man  is  that  you  think  him 
worth  flattering.  Not  that  I  would  flatter  any  man: 
dont  think  that.  I'll  just  go  and  meet  him.  {lie  goes 
down  the  hill  with  the  eager  forward  look  of  a  man 
about  to  greet  a  valued  acquaintance.  Nora  dries  her*, 
eyes,  and  turns  to  go  as  Larry  strolls  up  the  hill  to  her.^ 

Larry.  Nora.  (She  turns  and  looks  at  him  hardly, 
without  a  word.  He  continues  anxiously,  in  his  most 
conciliatory  tone.)  When  I  left  you  that  time,  I  was 
just  as  wretched  as  you.  I  didnt  rightly  know  what  I 
wanted  to  say;  and  my  tongue  kept  clacking  to  cover 
the  loss  I  was  at.  Well,  Ive  been  thinking  ever  since; 
and  now  I  know  what  I  ought  to  have  said.  Ive  come 
back  to  say  it. 

Nora.  Youve  come  too  late,  then.  You  thought 
eighteen  years  was  not  long  enough,  and  that  you  might 
keep  me  waiting  a  day  longer.  Well,  you  were  mistaken. 
I'm  engaged  to  your  friend  Mr.  Broadbent;  and  I'm 
done  with  you. 

Larry  (naively).  But  that  was  the  very  thing  I  was 
going  to  advise  you  to  do. 

Nora  (involuntarily).  Oh  you  brute!  to  tell  me  that 
to  me  face. 

Larry  (nervously  relapsing  into  his  most  Irish  man- 
ner). Nora,  dear,  dont  you  understand  that  I'm  an 
Irishman,  and  lies  an  Englishman.  He  wants  you;  and 
he  grabs  you.  I  want  you ;  .and  I  quarrel  with  you  and 
have  to  go  on  wanting  you. 

Nora.  So  you  may.  Youd  better  go  back  to  England 
to  the  animated  beefsteaks  youre  so  fond  of. 

Larry  (amazed).  Nora!  (Guessing  where  she  got 
the  metaphor.)  Hes  been  talking  about  me,  I  see.  Well, 
never  mind:  we  must  be  friends,  you  and  I.  I  dont 
want  his  marriage  to  you  to  be  his  divorce  from  me. 

Nora.  You  care  more  for  him  than  you  ever  did  for 
me. 

Larry   (with  curt  sincerity).     Yes  of  course  I   do: 


114  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

why  should  I  tell  you  lies  about  it?  Nora  Reilly  was 
a  person  of  very  little  consequence  to  me  or  anyone  else 
outside  this  miserable  little  hole.  But  Mrs.  Tom  Broad- 
bent  will  be  a  person  of  very  considerable  consequence 
indeed.  Play  your  new  part  well,  and  there  will  be 
no  more  neglect,  no  more  loneliness,  no  more  idle  re- 
grettings  and  vain-hopings  in  the  evenings  by  the  round 
tower,  but  real  life  and  real  work  and  real  cares  and 
real  joys  among  real  people:  solid  English  life  in  Lon- 
don, the  very  centre  of  the  world.  You  will  find  your 
work  cut  out  for  you  keeping  Tom's  house  and  enter- 
taining Tom's  friends  and  getting  Tom  into  parliament; 
but  it  will  be  worth  the  effort. 

Nora.  You  talk  as  if  I  were  under  an  obligation  to 
him  for  marrying  me. 

Larry.  I  talk  as  I  think.  Youve  made  a  very  good 
match,  let  me  tell  you. 

Nora.  Indeed !  Well,  some  people  might  say  hes 
not  done  so  badly  himself. 

Larry.  If  you  mean  that  you  will  be  a  treasure  to 
him,  he  thinks  so  now;  and  you  can  keep  him  thinking 
so  if  you  like. 

Nora.     I  wasnt  thinking  o  meself  at  all. 

Larry.     Were  you  thinking  of  your  money,  Nora? 

Nora.     I  didnt  say  so. 

Larry.  Your  money  will  not  pay  your  cook's  wages 
in  London. 

Nora  {flaming  up).  If  thats  true — and  the  more 
shame  for  you  to  throw  it  in  my  face  if  it  i  s  true — at 
all  events  itU  make  us  independent;  for  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  we  can  always  come  back  here  an 
live  on  it.  An  if  I  have  to  keep  his  house  for  him,  at 
all  events  I  can  keep  you  out  of  it ;  for  Ive  done  with 
you;  and  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  you.  So  goodbye  to  you, 
Mister  Larry  Doyle.  (She  turns  her  back  on  him  and 
goes  home.) 

Larry  {ivatching  her  as  she  goes).     Goodbjx.    Good- 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  115 

bye.  Oh,  thats  so  Irish !  Irish  both  of  us  to  the  back- 
bone: Irish,  Irish,  Irish — 

Broadbent  arrives,  conversing  energetically  with 
Keegan. 

Broadbent.  Nothing  pays  like  a  golfing  hotel,  if 
you  hold  the  land  instead  of  the  shares,  and  if  the  fur- 
niture people  stand  in  with  you,  and  if  you  are  a  good 
man  of  business. 

Larry.     Nora's  gone  home. 

Broadbent  {with  conviction^.  You  were  right  this 
morning,  Larry.  I  must  feed  up  Nora.  She's  weak; 
and  it  makes  her  fanciful.  Oh,  by  the  way,  did  I  tell 
you  that  we're  engaged.'* 

Larry.     She  told  me  herself. 

Broadbent  (^complacently).  She's  rather  full  of  it, 
as  you  may  imagine.  Poor  Nora !  Well,  Mr.  Keegan, 
as  I  said,  I  begin  to  see  my  way  here.  I  begin  to  see 
my  way. 

Keegan  {with  a  courteous  inclination^.  The  con- 
quering Englishman,  sir.  Within  24  hours  of  your  ar- 
rival you  have  carried  off  our  only  heiress,  and  prac- 
tically secured  the  parliamentary  seat.  And  you  have 
promised  me  that  when  I  come  here  in  the  evenings  to 
meditate  on  my  madness;  to  watch  the  shadow  of  the 
round  tower  lengthening  in  the  sunset;  to  break  my 
heart  uselessly  in  the  curtained  gloaming  over  the  dead 
heart  and  blinded  soul  of  the  island  of  the  saints,  you 
will  comfort  me  with  the  bustle  of  a  great  hotel,  and 
the  sight  of  the  little  children  carrying  the  golf  clubs 
of  your  tourists  as  a  preparation  for  the  life  to  come. 

Broadbent  (quite  touched,  mutely  offering  him  a 
cigar  to  console  him,  at  which  he  smiles  and  shakes  his 
head).  Yes,  Mr.  Keegan:  youre  quite  right.  Theres 
poetry  in  everything,  even  (looking  absently  into  the 
cigar  case)  in  the  most  modern  prosaic  things,  if  you 
know  how  to  extract  it  (he  extracts  a  cigar  for  himself 
and  offers  one  to  Larry,  who  takes  it).     If  I  was  to  be 


116  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

shot  for  it  I  couldnt  extract  it  myself;  but  thats  where 
you  come  in,  you  see  {roguishly,  waking  up  from  his 
reverie  and  bustling  Keegan  gooclhumoredly).  And 
then  I  shall  wake  you  up  a  bit.  Thats  where  /  come  in : 
eh?  d'ye  see?  Eh?  eh?  (He  pats  him  very  pleasantly 
on  the  shoulder,  half  admiringly,  half  pityingly.)  Just 
so,  just  so.  (Coming  back  to  business.)  By  the  way, 
I  believe  I  can  do  better  than  a  light  railway  here.  There 
seems  to  be  no  question  now  that  the  motor  boat  has 
come  to  stay.  Well,  look  at  your  magnificent  river  there, 
going  to  waste. 

Keegan  (closing  his  eyes).  "  Silent,  p  Moyle,  be 
the  roar  of  thy  waters." 

Broadbent.  You  know,  the  roar  of  a  motor  boat  is 
quite  pretty. 

Keegan.     Provided  it  does  not  drown  the  Angelus. 

Broadbent  (reassuringly).  Oh  no:  it  wont  do  that: 
not  the  least  danger.  You  know,  a  church  bell  can 
make  a  devil  of  a  noise  when  it  likes. 

Keegan.  You  have  an  answer  for  everything,  sir. 
But  your  plans  leave  one  question  still  unansAvered:  how 
to  get  butter  out  of  a  dog's  throat. 

Broadbent.     Eh? 

Keegan.  You  cannot  build  your  golf  links  and  hotels 
in  the  air.  For  that  you  must  own  our  land.  And  how 
will  you  drag  our  acres  from  the  ferret's  grip  of  ]Mat- 
thew  Haffigan?  How  will  you  persuade  Cornelius  Doyle 
to  forego  the  pride  of  being  a  small  landowner?  How 
will  Barney  Doran's  millrace  agree  with  your  motor 
boats?  Will  Doolan  help  you  to  get  a  license  for  your 
hotel? 

Broadbent.  My  dear  sir:  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses the  syndicate  I  represent  already  owns  half  Ross- 
cullen.  Doolan's  is  a  tied  house;  and  the  brewers  are 
in  the  syndicate.  As  to  Haffigan's  farm  and  Doran's 
mill  and  Mr.  Doyle's  place  and  half  a  dozen  others,  they 
will  be  mortgaged  to  me  before  a  month  is  out. 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  117 

Keegan.  But  pardon  me,  you  will  not  lend  them 
more  on  their  land  than  the  land  is  worth;  so  they  will 
be  able  to  pay  you  the  interest. 

Broadbent.  Ah,  you  are  a  poet,  Mr.  Keegan,  not 
a  man  of  business. 

Larry.  We  will  lend  everyone  of  these  men  half 
as  much  again  on  their  land  as  it  is  worth,  or  ever  can 
be  worth,  to  them. 

Broadbent.  You  forget,  sir,  that  we,  with  our  cap- 
ital, our  knowledge,  oiir  organization,  and  may  I  say  our 
English  business  habits,  can  make  or  lose  ten  pounds 
out  of  land  that  Haffigan,  with  all  his  industry,  could 
not  make  or  lose  ten  shillings  out  of.  Doran's  mill 
is  a  superannuated  folly:  I  shall  want  it  for  electric 
lighting. 

Larry.  What  is  the  use  of  giving  land  to  such  men  ? 
they  are  too  small,  too  poor,  too  ignorant,  too  simple- 
minded  to  hold  it  against  us:  you  might  as  well  give  a 
dukedom  to  a  crossing  sweeper. 

Broadbent.  Yes,  Mr.  Keegan:  this  place  may  have 
an  industrial  future,  or  it  may  have  a  residential  future: 
I  cant  tell  yet;  but  it's  not  going  to  be  a  future  in  the 
hands  of  your  Dorans  and  Haffigans,  poor  devils ! 

Keegan.  It  may  have  no  future  at  all.  Have  you 
thought  of  that.'' 

Broadbent.  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  that.  I  have 
faith  in  Ireland,  great  faith,  ]\Ir.  Keegan. 

Keegan.  And  we  have  none:  only  empty  enthusiasms 
and  patriotisms,  and  emptier  memories  and  regrets.  Ah 
yes :  you  have  some  excuse  for  believing  that  if  there  be 
any  future,  it  will  be  yours;  for  our  faith  seems  dead, 
and  our  hearts  cold  and  cowed.  An  island  of  dreamers 
who  wake  up  in  your  jails,  of  critics  and  cowards  whom 
you  buy  and  tame  for  your  own  service,  of  bold  rogues 
who  help  you  to  plunder  us  that  they  may  plunder  you 
afterwards.     Eh  ? 

Broadbent  (a  little  impatient  of  this  unbusinesslike 


118  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  rv' 

vierr).  Yes,  yes;  but  vou  know  you  might  say  that  of 
any  country.  The  fact  is,  there  are  only  two  qualities  in 
the  world:  efficiency  and  inefficiency,  and  only  two  sorts 
of  people:  the  efficient  and  the  inefficient.  It  dont  mat- 
ter whether  theyre  English  or  Irish.  I  shall  collar  this 
place,  not  because  I'm  an  Englishman  and  Haffigan  and 
Co.  are  Irishmen,  but  because  theyre  duffers  and  I  know 
my  way  about. 

Keegax.  Have  you  considered  what  is  to  become  of 
Haffigan  } 

Larrv.  Oh,  we'll  employ  him  in  some  capacity  or 
other,  and  probably  pay  him  more  than  he  makes  for 
himself  now. 

Broadbext  (dubiously) .  Do  you  think  so?  Xo  no: 
Haffigan's  too  old.  It  really  doesnt  pay  now  to  take  on 
men  over  forty  even  for  unskilled  labor,  which  I  sup- 
pose is  all  Haffigan  would  be  good  for.  Xo:  Haffigan 
had  better  go  to  America,  or  into  the  Union,  poor  old 
chap  I     Hes  worked  out,  you  know:  you  can  see  it. 

Keegax.  Poor  lost  soul,  so  cunningly  fenced  in  with 
invisible  bars  I 

Larry.  Haffigan  doesnt  matter  much.  He'll  die 
presently. 

Broadbext  (shocked).  Oh  come,  Larry!  Dont  be 
imfeeling.  Its  hard  on  Haffigan.  It's  always  hard  on 
the  inefficient. 

Larry.  Pah !  what  does  it  matter  where  an  old  and 
broken  man  spends  his  last  days,  or  whether  he  has  a 
million  at  the  bank  or  only  the  workhouse  dole.^  It's 
the  young  men,  the  able  men,  that  matter.  The  real 
tragedy  of  Haffigan  is  the  tragedy  of  his  wasted  youth, 
his  stimted  mind,  his  drudging  over  his  clods  and  pigs 
until  he  has  become  a  clod  and  a  pig  himself — until  the 
soul  within  him  has  smouldered  into  nothing  but  a  dull 
temper  that  hurts  himself  and  all  around  him.  I  say 
let  him  die,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  his  like.  And 
let  young  Ireland  take  care  that  it  doesnt  share  his  fate. 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  119 

instead  of  making  another  empty  grievance  of  it.  Let 
your  syndicate  come — 

Broadbent.  Your  syndicate  too,  old  chap.  You 
have  your  bit  of  the  stock. 

Larry.  Yes,  mine  if  you  like.  Well,  our  syndicate 
has  no  conscience:  it  has  no  more  regard  for  your  Haffi- 
gans  and  Doolans  and  Dorans  than  it  has  for  a  gang  of 
Chines  coolies.  It  will  use  your  patriotic  blatherskite 
and  balderdash  to  get  parliamentary  powers  over  you  as 
cynically  as  it  would  bait  a  mousetrap  with  toasted 
cheese.  It  will  plan,  and  organize,  and  find  capital 
while  you  slave  like  bees  for  it  and  revenge  yourselves 
by  paying  politicians  and  penny  newspapers  out  of  your 
small  wages  to  write  articles  and  report  speeches  against 
its  wickedness  and  tyranny,  and  to  crack  up  your  own 
Irish  heroism,  just  as  Haffigan  once  paid  a  witch  a  penny 
to  put  a  spell  on  Billy  Byrne's  cow.  In  the  end  it  will 
grind  the  nonsense  out  of  you,  and  grind  strength  and 
sense  into  you. 

Broadbent  {out  of  patience').  \^Tiy  cant  you  say  a 
simple  thing  simply,  Larry,  without  all  that  Irish  ex- 
aggeration and  talky-talky .''  The  syndicate  is  a  per- 
fectly respectable  body  of  responsible  men  of  good 
position.  We'll  take  Ireland  in  hand,  and  by  straightfor- 
ward business  habits  teach  it  efficiency  and  self-help  on 
sound  Liberal  principles.  You  agree  with  me,  Mr. 
Keegan,  dont  you.'' 

Keegan.     Sir:  I  may  even  vote  for  you. 

Broadbent  {sincerely  moved,  shaking  his  hand 
warmly).  You  shall  never  regret  it,  Mr.  Keegan:  I  give 
you  my  word  for  that.  I  shall  bring  money  here:  I 
shall  raise  wages:  I  shall  found  public  institutions,  a 
library,  a  Polytechnic  (undenominational,  of  course),  a 
gymnasium,  a  cricket  club,  perhaps  an  art  school.  I 
shall  make  a  Garden  city  of  Rosscullen :  the  round  tower 
shall  be  thoroughly  repaired  and  restored. 

Keegan.    And  our  place  of  torment  shall  be  as  clean 


120  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

and  orderly  as  the  cleanest  and  most  orderly  place  I 
know  in  Ireland,  which  is  our  poetically  named  Mount- 
joy  prison.  Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  vote  for  an 
efficient  devil  that  knows  his  o-vvn  mind  and  his  own 
business  than  for  a  foolish  patriot  who  has  na  mind  and 
no  business. 

Broadbent  {stiffly).  Devil  is  rather  a  strong  ex- 
pression in  that  connexion,  Mr.  Keegan. 

Keegan.  Not  from  a  man  who  knows  that  this  world 
is  hell.  But  since  the  word  offends  you,  let  me  soften 
it,  and  compare  you  simply  to  an  ass.  {Larry  whitens 
with  anger.) 

Broadbent  {reddening).     An  ass! 

Keegan  {gently).  You  may  take  it  without  offence 
from  a  madman  who  calls  the  ass  his  brother — and  a 
very  honest,  useful  and  faithful  brother  too.  The  ass, 
sir,  is  the  most  efficient  of  beasts,  matter-of-fact,  hardy, 
friendly  when  you  treat  him  as  a  fellow-creature,  stub- 
born when  you  abuse  him,  ridiculous  only  in  love,  which 
sets  him  braying,  and  in  politics,  which  move  him  to 
roll  about  in  the  public  road  and  raise  a  dust  about 
nothing.  Can  you  deny  these  qualities  and  habits  in 
yourself,  sir? 

Broadbent  {goodhumoredly) .  Well,  yes,  I'm  afraid 
I  do,  you  know. 

Keegan.  Then  perhaps  you  will  confess  to  the  ass's 
one  fault. 

Broadbent.     Perhaps  so:  what  is  it.'* 

Keegan.  That  he  wastes  all  his  virtues — his  effi- 
ciency, as  you  call  it — in  doing  the  will  of  his  greedy 
masters  instead  of  doing  the  will  of  Heaven  that  is  in 
himself.  He  is  efficient  in  the  service  of  Mammon, 
mighty  in  mischief,  skilful  in  ruin^.  heroic  in  destruc- 
tion. But  he  comes  to  browse  here  without  knowing 
that  the  soil  his  hoof  touches  is  holy  ground.  Ireland, 
sir,  for  good  or  evil,  is  like  no  other  place  imder  heaven ; 
and  no  man  can  touch  its  sod  or  breathe  its  air  without 


Act  TV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  121 

becoming  better  or  worse.  It  produces  two  kinds  of 
men  in  strange  perfection:  saints  and  traitors.  It  is 
called  the  island  of  the  saints;  but  indeed  in  these  later 
years  it  might  be  more  fitly  called  the  island  of  the 
traitors;  for  our  harvest  of  these  is  the  fine  flower  of 
the  world's  crop  of  infamy.  But  the  day  may  come 
when  these  islands  shall  live  by  the  quality  of  their 
men  rather  than  by  the  abundance  of  their  minerals; 
and  then  we  shall  see. 

Larry.  Mr.  Keegan:  if  you  are  going  to  be  senti- 
mental about  Ireland,  I  shall  bid  you  good  evening.  We 
have  had  enough  of  that,  and  more  than  enough  of 
cleverly  proving  that  everybody  who  is  not  an  Irishman 
is  an  ass.  It  is  neither  good  sense  nor  good  manners. 
It  will  not  stop  the  syndicate;  and  it  will  not  interest 
young  Ireland  so  much  as  my  friend's  gospel  of  effi- 
ciency. 

Broadbent.  Ah,  yes,  yes:  efficiency  is  the  thing.  I 
dont  in  the  least  mind  your  chaff,  Mr.  Keegan;  but 
Larry's  right  on  the  main  point.  The  world  belongs  to 
the  efficient. 

Keegan  (with  polished  irony).  I  stand  rebuked,  gen- 
tlemen. But  believe  me,  I  do  every  justice  to  the  effi- 
ciency of  you  and  your  syndicate.  You  are  both,  I  am 
told,  thoroughly  efficient  civil  engineers;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  the  golf  links  will  be  a  triumph  of  your  art.  Mr. 
Broadbent  will  get  into  parliament  most  efficiently,  which 
is  more  than  St.  Patrick  could  do  if  he  were  alive  now. 
You  may  even  build  the  hotel  efficiently  if  you  can  find 
enough  efficient  masons,  carpenters,  and  plumbers,  which 
I  rather  doubt.  (Dropping  his  irony,  and  beginning  to 
fall  into  the  attitude  of  the  priest  rebuking  sin.)  When 
the  hotel  becomes  insolvent  (Broadbent  takes  his  cigar 
out  of  his  mouth,  a  little  taken  aback),  your  English 
business  habits  will  secure  the  thorough  efficiency  of  the 
liquidation.  You  will  reorganize  the  scheme  efficiently; 
you    will    liquidate    its    second    bankruptcy    efficiently 


122  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

{Broadhent  and  Larry  look  quickly  at  one  another;  for 
this,  unless  the  priest  is  an  old  fnancial  hand,  must  be 
inspiration)  ;  you  will  get  rid  of  its  original  shareholders 
efficiently  after  efficiently  ruining  them ;  and  you  will 
finally  profit  very  efficiently  by  getting  that  hotel  for  a 
few  shillings  in  the  pound.  {More  and  more  ster7dy.) 
Besides  these  efficient  operations,  you  will  foreclose  your 
mortgages  most  efficiently  {his  rebuking  forefinger  goes 
up  in  spite  of  himself) ;  you  will  drive  Haffigan  to 
America  very  efficiently;  you  will  find  a  use  for  Barney 
Doran's  foul  mouth  and  bullying  temper  by  employing 
him  to  slave-drive  your  laborers  very  efficiently;  and 
(low  and  bitter)  when  at  last  this  poor  desolate  coiuitry- 
side  becomes  a  busy  mint  in  which  we  shall  all  slave  to 
make  money  for  you.  with  our  Polytechnic  to  teach  us 
how  to  do  it  efficiently,  and  our  library  to  fuddle  the 
few  imaginations  your  distilleries  will  spare,  and  our 
repaired  round  tower  with  admission  sixpence,  and  re- 
freshments and  penny-in-the-slot  muto scopes  to  make  it 
interesting,  then  no  doubt  your  English  and  American 
shareholders  will  spend  all  the  money  we  make  for  them 
very  efficiently  in  shooting  and  hunting,  in  operations 
for  cancer  and  appendicitis,  in  gluttony  and  gambling: 
and  you  will  devote  what  they  save  to  fresh  land  de- 
velopment schemes.  For  four  wicked  centuries  the 
world  has  dreamed  this  foolish  dream  of  efficiency;  and 
the  end  is  not  yet.     But  the  end  will  come. 

Broadbext  (seriously).  Too  true,  Mr.  Keegan,  only 
too  true.  And  most  eloquently  put.  It  reminds  me  of 
poor  Ruskin — a  great  man,  you  know.  I  sympathize. 
Believe  me,  I'm  on  your  side.  Dont  sneer,  Larry:  I 
used  to  read  a  lot  of  Shelley  years  ago.  Let  us  be  faith- 
ful to  the  dreams  of  our  youth  {he  wafts  a  wreath  of 
cigar  smoke  at  large  across  the  hill). 

Keegan.  Come,  Mr.  Doyle !  is  this  English  senti- 
ment so  much  more  efficient  than  our  Irish  sentiment, 
after  all.''     Mr.  Broadbent  spends  his  life  inefficiently 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  123 

admiring  the  thoughts  of  great  men,  and  efficiently 
serving  the  cupidity  of  base  money  hunters.  We  spend 
our  lives  efficiently  sneering  at  him  and  doing  nothing. 
Which  of  us  has  any  right  to  reproach  the  other? 

Broadbent  {coming  down  the  hill  again  to  Keegan's 
right  hand).  But  you  know,  something  must  be 
done. 

Keegan.  Yes:  when  we  cease  to  do,  we  cease  to  live. 
Well,  what  shall  we  do? 

Broadbent.     Why,  what  lies  to  our  hand. 

Keegan.  Which  is  the  making  of  golf  links  and 
hotels  to  bring  idlers  to  a  country  which  workers  have 
left  in  millions  because  it  is  a  hungry  land,  a  naked 
land,  an  ignorant  and  oppressed  land. 

Broadbent.  But,  hang  it  all,  the  idlers  will  bring 
money  from  England  to  Ireland! 

Keegan.  Just  as  our  idlers  have  for  so  many  gen- 
erations taken  money  from  Ireland  to  England.  Has 
that  saved  England  from  poverty  and  degradation  more 
horrible  than  we  have  ever  dreamed  of?  When  I  went 
to  England,  sir,  I  hated  England.  Now  I  pity  it. 
(Broadbent  can  hardly  conceive  an  Irishman  pitying 
England;  but  as  Larry  intervenes  angrily,  he  gives  it  up 
and  takes  to  the  hill  and  his  cigar  again.) 

Larry.     Much  good  your  pity  will  do  it! 

Keeg/n.  In  the  accounts  kept  in  heaven,  Mr.  Doyle, 
a  heart  purified  of  hatred  may  be  worth  more  even  than 
a  Land  Development  Syndicate  of  Anglicized  Irishmen 
and  Gladstonized  Englishman. 

Larry.  Oh,  in  heaven,  no  doubt !  I  have  never  been 
there.     Can  you  tell  me  where  it  is? 

Keegan.  Could  you  have  told  me  this  morning  where 
hell  is?  Yet  you  know  now  that  it  is  here.  Do  not 
despair  of  finding  heaven:  it  may  be  no  farther  off. 

Larry  (ironically).  On  this  holy  ground,  as  you  call 
it,  eh? 

Keegan   (^with  fierce  intensity).     Yes,  perhaps,  even 


124  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

on  this  holy  ground  which  such  Irishmen  as  you  have 
turned  into  a  Land  of  Derision. 

Broadbent  {coming  between  them).  Take  care!  you 
will  be  quarrelling  presently.  Oh,  you  Irishmen,  you 
Irishmen!  Toujours  Ballyhooly,  eh.''  (Larry,  with  a 
shrug,  half  comic,  half  impatient,  turns  away  up  the 
hill,  but  presently  strolls  back  on  Keegan's  right.  Broad- 
bent  adds,  confidentially  to  Keegan)  Stick  to  the  Eng- 
lishman, Mr.  Keegan:  he  has  a  bad  name  here;  but  at 
least  he  can  forgive  you  for  being  an  Irishman. 

Keegan.  Sir:  when  you  speak  to  me  of  English  and 
Irish  you  forget  that  I  am  a  Catholic.  My  country  is 
not  Ireland  nor  England,  but  the  whole  mighty  realm 
of  my  Church.  For  me  there  are  but  two  countries: 
heaven  and  hell;  but  two  conditions  of  men:  salvation 
and  damnation.  Standing  here  between  3'ou  the  English- 
man, so  clever  in  your  foolishness,  and  this  Irishman, 
so  foolish  in  his  cleverness,  I  cannot  in  my  ignorance 
be  sure  which  of  you  is  the  more  deeply  damned;  but 
I  should  be  unfaithful  to  my  calling  if  I  opened  the 
gates  of  my  heart  less  widely  to  one  than  to  the  other. 

Larry.  In  either  case  it  would  be  an  impertinence, 
Mr.  Keegan,  as  your  approval  is  not  of  the  slightest 
consequence  to  us.  What  use  do  you  suppose  all  this 
drivel  is  to  men  with  serious  practical  business  in  hand? 

Broadbent.  I  dont  agree  with  that,  Larry.  I  think 
these  things  cannot  be  said  too  often:  they  keep  up  the 
moral  tone  of  the  community.  As  you  know,  I  claim 
the  right  to  think  for  myself  in  religious  matters:  in 
fact,  I  am  ready  to  avow  myself  a  bit  of  a — of  a — ^well, 
I  dont  care  who  knows  it — a  bit  of  a  Unitarian;  but  if 
the  Church  of  England  contained  a  few  men  like  Mr. 
Keegan,  I  should  certainly  join  it. 

Keegan.  You  do  me  too  much  honor,  sir.  (With 
priestly  humility  to  Larry.)  Mr,  Doyle:  I  am  to  blame 
for  having  imintentionally  set  your  mind  somewhat  on 
edge  against  me.     I  beg  your  pardon. 


Act  IV       John  Bull's  Other  Island  125 

Larry  {unimpressed  and  hostile).  I  didnl  stand  on 
ceremony  with  you:  you  neednt  stand  on  it  with  me. 
Fine  manners  and  fine  words  are  cheajD  in  Ireland:  you 
can  keep  both  for  my  friend  here,  who  is  still  imposed 
on  by  them.     I  know  their  value. 

Keegan.    You  mean  you  dont  know  their  value. 

Larry  {angrily).     I  mean  what  I  say. 

Keegan  (turning  quietly  to  the  Englishman).  You 
see,  ]Mr.  Broadbent,  I  only  make  the  hearts  of  my  coim- 
trymen  harder  when  I  preach  to  them:  the  gates  of  hell 
still  prevail  against  me.  I  shall  wish  you  good  evening. 
I  am  better  alone,  at  the  round  tower,  dreaming  of 
heaven.     {He  goes  up  the  hill.) 

Larry.  Aye,  thats  it!  there  you  are!  dreaming, 
dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming! 

Keegan  {halting  and  turning  to  them  for  the  last 
time).  Every  dream  is  a  prophecy:  every  jest  is  an 
earnest  in  the  womb  of  Time. 

Broadbent  {reflectively).  Once,  when  I  was  a  small 
kid,  I  dreamt  I  was  in  heaven,  {They  both  stare  at 
him.)  It  was  a  sort  of  pale  blue  satin  place,  with  all 
the  pious  old  ladies  in  our  congregation  sitting  as  if 
they  were  at  a  service;  and  there  was  some  awful  person 
in  the  study  at  the  other  side  of  the  hall.  I  didnt  enjoy 
it,  you  know.     What  is  it  like  in  y  o  u  r  dreams  ? 

Keegan.  In  my  dreams  it  is  a  country  where  the 
State  is  the  Church  and  the  Church  the  people:  three 
in  one  and  one  in  three.  It  is  a  commonwealth  in  which 
work  is  play  and  play  is  life:  three  in  one  and  one  in 
three.  It  is  a  temple  in  which  the  priest  is  the  wor- 
shipper and  the  worshipper  the  worshipped:  three  in 
one  and  one  in  three.  It  is  a  godhead  in  which  all  life 
is  human  and  all  humanity  divine:  three  in  one  and  one 
in  three.  It  is,  in  short,  the  dream  of  a  madman.  {He 
goes  away  across  the  hill.) 

Broadbent  {looking  after  him  affectionately).  What 
a  regular  old  Church  and  State  Tory  he  is!     Hes   a 


126  John  Bull's  Other  Island        Act  IV 

character:  he'll  be  an  attraction  here.  Really  almost 
equal  to  Ruskin  and  Carlyle. 

Larry.  Yes ;  and  much  good  t  h  e  v  did  with  all  their 
talk ! 

Broadbent.  Oh  tut^  tut^  Larry !  They  improved  my 
mind:  they  raised  my  tone  enormously.  I  feel  sincerely 
obliged  to  Keegan:  he  has  made  me  feel  a  better  man: 
distinctly  better.  (With  sincere  elevation.)  I  feel  now 
as  I  never  did  before  that  I  am  right  in  devoting  my 
life  to  the  cause  of  Ireland.  Come  along  and  help  me 
to  choose  the  site  for  the  hotel. 


HOW    HE    LIED    TO    HER 
HUSBAND 

1904 


PREFACE 

Like  many  other  works  of  mine,  this  playlet  is  a  piece 
d'occasion.  In  1905  it  happened  that  Mr.  Arnold  Daly, 
who  was  then  playing  the  part  of  Napoleon  in  The  Man 
of  Destiny  in  New  York,  found  that  whilst  the  play 
was  too  long  to  take  a  secondary  place  in  the  evening's 
performance,  it  was  too  short  to  suffice  by  itself.  I 
therefore  took  advantage  of  four  days  continuous  rain 
during  a  holiday  in  the  north  of  Scotland  to  write  How 
He  Lied  To  Her  Husband  for  Mr.  Daly.  In  his  hands, 
it  served  its  turn  very  effectively. 

I  print  it  here  as  a  sample  of  what  can  be  done  with 
even  the  most  hackneyed  stage  framework  by  filling  it 
in  with  an  observed  touch  of  actual  humanity  instead  of 
with  doctrinaire  romanticism.  Nothing  in  the  theatre 
is  staler  than  the  situation  of  husband,  wife  and  lover, 
or  the  fun  of  knockabout  farce.  I  have  taken  both,  and 
got  an  original  play  out  of  them,  as  anybody  else  can 
if  only  he  will  look  about  him  for  his  material  instead 
of  plagiarizing  Othello  and  the  thousand  plays  that  have 
proceeded  on  Othello's  romantic  assumptions  and  false 
point  of  honor. 

A  further  experiment  made  by  Mr.  Arnold  Daly  with 
this  play  is  worth  recording.  In  1905  ^Ir.  Daly  pro- 
duced Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  in  New  York.  The 
press  of  that  city  instantly  raised  a  cry  that  such  per- 
sons as  Mrs.  Warren  are  "  ordure,"  and  should  not  be 
mentioned  in  the  presence  of  decent  people.  This  hide- 
ous repudiation  of  humanity  and  social  conscience  so 
took  possession  of  the  New  York  journalists  that  the 
129 


180     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

few  among  them  who  kept  their  feet  morally  and  in- 
tellectually could  do  nothing  to  check  the  epidemic  of 
foul  language^  gross  suggestion,  and  raving  obscenity  of 
word  and  thought  that  broke  out.  The  writers  aban- 
doned all  self-restraint  under  the  impression  that  they 
were  upholding  virtue  instead  of  outraging  it.  They 
infected  each  other  with  their  hysteria  until  they  were 
for  all  practical  purposes  indecently  mad.  They  finally 
forced  the  police  to  arrest  Mr.  Daly  and  his  company, 
and  led  the  magistrate  to  express  his  loathing  of  the 
duty  thus  forced  upon  him  of  reading  an  unmentionable 
and  abominable  play.  Of  course  the  convulsion  soon 
exhausted  itself.  The  magistrate,  naturally  somewhat 
impatient  when  he  found  that  what  he  had  to  read  was 
a  strenuously  ethical  play  forming  part  of  a  book  which 
had  been  in  circulation  unchallenged  for  eight  years, 
and  had  been  received  without  protest  by  the  whole 
London  and  New  York  press,  gave  the  journalists  a 
piece  of  his  mind  as  to  their  moral  taste  in  plays.  By 
consent,  he  passed  the  case  on  to  a  higher  court,  which 
declared  that  the  play  was  not  immoral;  acquitted  Mr. 
Daly;  and  made  an  end  of  the  attempt  to  use  the  law 
to  declare  living  women  to  be  "  ordure,"  and  thus  en- 
force silence  as  to  the  far-reaching  fact  that  you  cannot 
cheapen  women  in  the  market  for  industrial  purposes 
without  cheapening  them  for  other  purposes  as  well.  I 
hope  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession  will  be  played  every- 
where, in  season  and  out  of  season,  until  Mrs.  Warren 
has  bitten  that  fact  into  the  public  conscience,  and 
shamed  the  newspapers  which  support  a  tariff  to  keep 
up  the  price  of  every  American  commodity  except  Ameri- 
can manhood  and  womanhood. 

Unfortunately,  Mr.  Daly  had  already  suffered  the 
usual  fate  of  those  who  direct  public  attention  to  the 
profits  of  the  sweater  or  the  pleasures  of  the  voluptuary. 
He  was  morally  lynched  side  by  side  with  me.  Months 
elapsed  before  the  decision  of  the  courts  vindicated  him', 


Preface  131 

and  even  then,  since  his  vindication  implied  the  con- 
demnation of  the  press,  which  was  by  that  time  sober 
again,  and  ashamed  of  its  orgie,  his  triumph  received  a 
rather  sulky  and  grudging  publicity.  In  the  meantime 
he  had  hardly  been  able  to  approach  an  American  city, 
including  even  those  cities  which  had  heaped  applause 
on  him  as  the  defender  of  hearth  and  home  when  he 
produced  Candida,  without  having  to  face  articles  dis- 
cussing whether  mothers  could  allow  their  daughters  to 
attend  such  plays  as  You  Never  Can  Tell,  written  by 
the  infamous  author  of  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,  and 
acted  by  the  monster  who  produced  it.  What  made  this 
harder  to  bear  was  that  though  no  fact  is  better  estab- 
lished in  theatrical  business  than  the  financial  disastrous- 
ness  of  moral  discredit,  the  journalists  who  had  done 
all  the  mischief  kept  paying  vice  the  homage  of  assum- 
ing that  it  is  enormously  popular  and  lucrative,  and 
that  I  and  Mr.  Daly,  being  exploiters  of  vice,  must 
therefore  be  making  colossal  fortunes  out  of  the  abuse 
heaped  on  us,  and  had  in  fact  provoked  it  and  welcomed 
it  with  that  express  object.  Ignorance  of  real  life  could 
hardly  go  further. 

One  consequence  was  that  ^Ir.  Daly  could  not  have 
kept  his  financial  engagements  or  maintained  his  hold  on 
the  public  had  he  not  accepted  engagements  to  appear 
for  a  season  in  the  vaudeville  theatres  (the  American 
equivalent  of  our  music  halls),  where  he  played  How 
He  Lied  to  Her  Husband  comparatively  unhampered  by 
the  press  censorship  of  the  theatre,  or  by  that  sophistica- 
tion of  the  audience  through  press  suggestion  from 
which  I  suffer  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  author. 
Vaudeville  authors  are  fortunately  unknown:  the  audi- 
ences see  what  the  play  contains  and  what  the  actor  can 
do,  not  what  the  papers  ha^e  told  them  to  expect.  Suc- 
cess under  such  circumstances  had  a  value  both  for  Mr. 
Daly  and  myself  which  did  something  to  console  us 
for  the  very  unsavory  mobbing  which  the  New   York 


132     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

press  organized  for  us,  and  which  was  not  the  less  dis- 
gusting because  we  suffered  in  a  good  cause  and  in  the 
very  best  company, 

Mr.  Daly,  having  weathered  the  storm,  can  perhaps 
shake  his  soul  free  of  it  as  he  heads  for  fresh  successes 
with  younger  authors.  But  I  have  certain  sensitive 
places  in  my  soul :  I  do  not  like  that  word  "  ordure." 
Apply  it  to  my  work,  and  I  can  afford  to  smile,  since 
the  world,  on  the  whole,  will  smile  with  me.  But  to 
apply  it  to  the  woman  in  the  street,  whose  spirit  is  of 
one  substance  with  our  o^vn  and  her  body  no  less  holy: 
to  look  your  womenfolk  in  the  face  afterwards  and  not 
go  out  and  hang  yourself:  that  is  not  on  the  list  of 
pardonable  sins. 


HOW    HE    LIED    TO    HER 
HUSBAND 

It  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  curtains  are 
drawn  and  the  lamps  lighted  in  the  drawing  roovi  of 
Her  flat  in  Cromwell  Road.  Her  lover,  a  beautiful 
youth  of  eighteen,  in  evening  dress  and  cape,  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers  and  an  opera  hat  in  his  hands,  comes 
in  alone.  The  door  is  near  the  corner;  and  as  he  appears 
in  the  doorway,  he  has  the  fireplace  on  the  nearest  wall 
to  his  right,  and  the  grand  piano  along  the  opposite 
wall  to  his  left.  Near  the  fireplace  a  small  ornamental 
table  has  on  it  a  hand  mirror,  a  fan,  a  pair  of  long  white 
gloves,  and  a  little  white  woollen  cloud  to  wrap  a  woman's 
head  in.  On  the  other  side  of  the  room,  near  the  piano, 
is  a  broad,  square,  softly  upholstered  stool.  The  room 
is  furnished  in  the  most  approved  South  Kensington 
fashion:  that  is,  it  is  as  like  a  show  room  as  possible, 
and  is  intended  to  demonstrate  the  social  position  and 
spending  powers  of  its  owners,  and  not  in  the  least  to 
make  them  comfortable. 

He  is,  be  it  repeated,  a  very  beautiful  youth,  moving 
as  in  a  dream,  walking  as  on  air.  He  puts  his  flowers 
down  carefully  on  the  table  beside  the  fan;  takes  off  his 
cape,  and,  as  there  is  no  room  on  the  table  for  it,  takes 
it  to  the  piano;  puts  his  hat  on  the  cape;  crosses  to  the 
hearth;  looks  at  his  watch;  puts  it  up  again;  notices^ 
the  things  on  the  table;  lights  up  as  if  he  saw  heaven 
opening  before  him;  goes  to  the  table  and  takes  the. 
cloud  in  both  hands,  nestling  his  nose  into  its  softness 
and  kissing  it;  kisses  the  gloves  one  after  another;  kisses 
133 


134     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

the  fan;  gasps  a  long  shuddering  sigh  of  ecstasy;  sits 
down  on  the  stool  and  presses  his  hands  to  his  eyes  ta 
shut  out  reality  and  dream  a  little;  takes  his  hands  down 
and  shakes  his  head  with  a  little  smile  of  rebuke  for  his 
folly;  catches  sight  of  a  speck  of  dust  on  his  shoes  and 
hastily  and  carefully  brushes  it  off  with  his  handker- 
chief; rises  and  takes  the  hand  mirror  from  the  table 
to  make  sure  of  his  tie  with  the  gravest  anxiety;  and  is 
looking  at  his  watch  again  when  She  comes  in,  much 
flustered.  As  she  is  dressed  for  the  theatre;  has  spoilt, 
petted  ways;  and  wears  many  diamonds,  she  has  an  air 
of  being  a  young  and  beautiful  woman;  but  as  a  matter 
of  hard  fact,  she  is,  dress  and  pretensions  apart,  a  very 
ordinary  South  Kensington  female  of  about  37,  hope- 
lessly inferior  in  physical  and  spiritual  distinction  to  the 
beautifid  youth,  who  hastily  puts  down  the  mirror  as  she 
enters. 

He  {kissing  her  hand).     At  last! 

She.     Henry:  something  dreadful  has  happened. 

He.     Whats  the  matter? 

She.     I  have  lost  your  poems. 

He.  They  were  unworthy  of  you.  I  will  write  you 
some  more. 

She.  No,  thank  you.  Never  any  more  poems  for 
me.  Oh,  how  could  I  have  been  so  mad!  so  rash!  so 
imprudent ! 

He.  Thank  Heaven  for  your  madness,  your  rashness, 
your  imprudence ! 

She  (impatiently).  Oh,  be  sensible,  Henry.  Cant 
you  see  what  a  terrible  thing  this  is  for  me?  Suppose 
anybody  finds  these  poems !  what  will  they  think  ? 

He.  They  will  think  that  a  man  once  loved  a  woman 
more  devotedly  than  ever  man  loved  woman  before.  But 
they  will  not  know  what  man  it  was. 

She.  ^Vliat  good  is  that  to  me  if  everybody  will  know 
what  woman  it  was? 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     135 

He.     But  how  will  they  know? 

She.  How  will  they  know !  Why,  ray  name  is  all 
over  them:  my  silly,  unhappy  name.  Oh,  if  I  had  only 
been  christened  Mary  Jane,  or  Gladys  Muriel,  or 
Beatrice,  or  Francesca,  or  Guinevere,  or  something  quite 
common!  But  Aurora!  Aurora!  I'm  the  only  Aurora  in 
London;  and  everybody  knows  it.  I  believe  I'm  the 
only  Aurora  in  the  world.  And  it's  so  horribly  easy  to 
rhyme  to  it!  Oh,  Henry,  why  didn't  you  try  to  restrain 
your  feelings  a  little  in  common  consideration  for  me? 
Why  didnt  you  write  with  some  little  reserve? 

He.  Write  poems  to  you  with  reserve!  You  ask  me 
that ! 

She  (with  perfunctory  tenderness).  Yes,  dear,  of 
course  it  was  very  nice  of  you;  and  I  know  it  was  my 
own  fault  as  much  as  yours.  I  ought  to  have  noticed 
that  your  verses  ought  never  to  have  been  addressed  to 
a  married  woman. 

He.  Ah,  how  I  wish  they  had  been  addressed  to  an 
u  n-married  woman !  h  o  w  I  wish  they  had ! 

She.  Indeed  you  have  no  right  to  wish  anything  of 
the  sort.  They  are  quite  unfit  for  anybody  but  a  mar- 
ried woman.  Thats  just  the  difficulty.  What  will  my 
sisters-in-law  think  of  them? 

He  {painfully  jarred).  Have  you  got  sisters-in- 
law? 

She.  Yes,  of  course  I  have.  Do  you  suppose  I  am 
an  angel? 

He  (biting  his  lips).  I  do.  Heaven  help  me,  I  do — 
or  I  did — or  (he  almost  chokes  a  sob). 

She  (softening  and  putting  her  hand  caressingly  on 
his  shoulder).  Listen  to  me,  dear.  Its  very  nice  of  you 
to  live  with  me  in  a  dream,  and  to  love  me,  and  so  on; 
but  I  cant  help  my  husband  having  disagreeable  relatives, 
can  I? 

He  (brightening  up).  Ah,  of  course  they  are  your 
husband's  relatives:  I  forgot  that.     Forgive  me,  Aurora. 


136     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

\He  taJces  her  hand  from  his  shoulder  and  kisses  it.  She 
sits  down  on  the  stool.  He  remains  near  the  table,  with 
his  back  to  it,  smiling  fatuously  down  at  her.) 

She.  The  fact  is,  Teddy's  got  nothing  but  relatives. 
He  has  eight  sisters  and  six  half-sisters,  and  ever  so 
many  brothers — but  I  dont  mind  his  brothers.  Novt^  if 
you  only  knew  the  least  little  thing  about  the  world, 
Henry,  youd  know  that  in  a  large  family,  though  the 
sisters  quarrel  with  one  another  like  mad  all  the  time, 
yet  let  one  of  the  brothers  marry,  and  they  all  turn  on 
their  unfortunate  sister-in-law  and  devote  the  rest  of 
their  lives  with  perfect  imanimity  to  persuading  him 
that  his  wife  is  unworthy  of  him.  They  can  do  it  to 
her  very  face  without  her  knowing  it,  because  there  are 
always  a  lot  of  stupid  low  family  jokes  that  nobody 
understands  but  themselves.  Half  the  time  you  cant 
tell  what  theyre  talking  about:  it  just  drives  you  wild. 
There  ought  to  be  a  law  against  a  man's  sister  ever 
entering  his  house  after  hes  married.  I'm  as  certain  as 
that  I'm  sitting  here  that  Georgina  stole  those  poems 
out  of  my  workbox. 

He.     She  will  not  understand  them,  I  think. 

She.  Oh,  wont  she!  She'll  understand  them  only 
too  well.  She'll  imderstand  more  harm  than  ever  was 
in  them:  nasty  vulgar-minded  cat! 

He  (going  to  her).  Oh  dont,  dont  think  of  people 
in  that  way.  Dont  think  of  her  at  all.  (He  takes 
her  hand  and  sits  down  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet.) 
Aurora:  do  you  remember  the  evening  when  I  sat  here 
at  your  feet  and  read  you  those  poems  for  the  first 
time  ? 

She.  I  shouldnt  have  let  you :  I  see  that  now.  When 
I  think  of  Georgina  sitting  there  at  Teddy's  feet  and 
reading  them  to  him  for  the  first  time^  I  feel  I  shall 
just  go  distracted. 

He.     Yes,  you  are  right.     It  will  be  a  profanation. 

She.      Oh,   I    dont  care  about  the   profanation;   but 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     137 

what  will  Teddy  think?  what  will  he  do?  (Suddenly 
throwing  his  head  away  from  her  knee.)  You  dont  seem 
to  think  a  bit  about  Teddy.  (She  jumps  up,  more  and 
more  agitated.) 

He  (supine  on  the  floor;  for  she  has  thrown  him  off 
his  balance).  To  me  Teddy  is  nothing,  and  Georgina 
less  than  nothing. 

She.  Youll  soon  find  out  how  much  less  than  nothing 
she  is.  If  you  think  a  woman  cant  do  any  harm  because 
shes  only  a  scandalmongering  dowdy  ragbag,  youre 
greatly  mistaken.  (She  flounces  about  the  room.  He 
gets  up  slowly  and  dusts  his  hands.  Suddenly  she  runs 
to  him  and  throws  herself  into  his  arms.)  Henry:  help 
me.  Find  a  way  out  of  this  for  me;  and  I'll  bless  you 
as  long  as  you  live.  Oh,  how  wretched  I  am !  (She  sobs 
on  his  breast.) 

He.    And  oh  !  how  happy  I  am ! 

She  (whisking  herself  abruptly  away).  Dont  be 
selfish. 

He  (humbly).  Yes:  I  deserve  that.  I  think  if  I  were 
going  to  the  stake  with  you,  I  should  still  be  so  happy 
with  you  that  I  could  hardly  feel  your  danger  more 
than  my  own. 

She  (relenting  arid  patting  his  hand  fondly).  Oh, 
you  are  a  dear  darling  boy,  Henry;  but  (throwing  his 
hand  away  fretfully)  youre  no  u  s  e.  I  want  somebody 
to  tell  me  what  to  do. 

He  (with  quiet  conviction).  Your  heart  will  tell  you 
at  the  right  time.  I  have  thought  deeply  over  this;  and 
I  know  what  we  two  must  do,  sooner  or  later. 

She.  No,  Henry.  I  will  do  nothing  improper,  noth- 
ing dishonorable.  (She  sits  down  plump  on  the  stool 
and  looks  inflexible.) 

He.  If  you  did,  you  would  no  longer  be  Aurora.  Our 
course  is  perfectly  simple,  perfectly  straightforward, 
perfectly  stainless  and  true.  We  love  one  another.  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  that:  I  am  ready  to  go  out  and  pro- 


138     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

claim  it  to  all  London  as  simply  as  I  will  declare  it  to 
your  husband  when  you  see — as  you  soon  will  see — 
that  this  is  the  only  way  honorable  enough  for  your  feet 
to  tread.  Let  us  go  out  together  to  our  own  house^  this 
evening,  without  concealment  and  without  shame.  Re- 
member! we  owe  something  to  your  husband.  We  are 
his  guests  here:  he  is  an  honorable  man:  he  has  been 
kind  to  us:  he  has  perhaps  loved  you  as  well  as  his 
prosaic  nature  and  his  sordid  commercial  environment 
permitted.  We  owe  it  to  him  in  all  honor  not  to  let  him 
learn  the  truth  from  the  lips  of  a  scandalmonger.  Let 
us  go  to  him  now  quietly,  hand  in  hand;  bid  him  fare- 
well; and  walk  out  of  the  house  without  concealment 
and  subterfuge,  freely  and  honestly,  in  full  honor  and 
self-respect. 

She  (staring  at  him).     And  where  shall  we  go  to? 

He.  We  shall  not  depart  by  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
ordinary  natural  current  of  our  lives.  We  were  going  to 
the  theatre  when  the  loss  of  the  poems  compelled  us  to 
take  action  at  once.  We  shall  go  to  the  theatre  still; 
but  we  shall  leave  your  diamonds  here;  for  we  cannot 
afford  diamonds,  and  do  not  need  them. 

She  (fretfully).  I  have  told  you  already  that  I 
hate  diamonds;  only  Teddy  insists  on  hanging  me  all 
over  with  them.  You  need  not  preach  simplicity  to 
me. 

He.  I  never  thought  of  doing  so,  dearest:  I  know 
that  these  trivialities  are  nothing  to  you.  What  was  I 
saying? — oh  yes.  Instead  of  coming  back  here  from 
the  theatre,  you  will  come  with  me  to  my  home — ^now 
and  henceforth  our  home — and  in  due  course  of  time, 
when  you  are  divorced,  we  shall  go  through  whatever 
idle  legal  ceremony  you  may  desire.  I  attach  no  im- 
portance to  the  law:  my  love  was  not  created  in  me  by 
the  law,  nor  can  it  be  bound  or  loosed  by  it.  That  is 
simple  enough,  and  sweet  enough,  is  it  not?  (He  takes 
the  flowers  from  the  table.)     Here  are  flowers  for  you: 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     139 

I  have  the  tickets:  we  will  ask  your  husband  to  lend  us 
the  carriage  to  shew  that  there  is  no  malice,  no  grudge, 
between  us.     Come! 

She  (spiritlessly,  taking  the  flowers  without  looking 
at  them,  and  temporizing).     Teddy  isnt  in  yet. 

He.  Well,  let  us  take  that  calmly.  Let  us  go  to  the 
theatre  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  tell  him  when 
we  come  back.  Now  or  three  hours  hence:  to-day  or 
to-morrow:  what  does  it  matter,  provided  all  is  done  in 
honor,  without  shame  or  fear? 

She.     What  did  you  get  tickets  for?     Lohengrin? 

He.  I  tried;  but  Lohengrin  was  sold  out  for  to- 
night.    {He  takes  out  two  Court  Theatre  tickets.) 

She.     Then  what  did  you  get? 

He.  Can  you  ask  me?  What  is  there  besides  Lohen- 
grin that  we  two  could  endure,  except  Candida? 

She  {springing  up).  Candida!  No,  I  wont  go  to  it 
again,  Henry  {tossing  the  flowers  on  the  piano).  It  is 
that  play  that  has  done  all  the  mischief.  I'm  very  sorry 
I  ever  saw  it:  it  ought  to  be  stopped. 

He   {amazed).     Aurora! 

She.     Yes:  I  mean  it. 

He.  That  divinest  love  poem!  the  poem  that  gave 
us  courage  to  speak  to  one  another !  that  revealed  to  us 
what  we  really  felt  for  one  another!  that — 

She.  Just  so.  It  put  a  lot  of  stuff  into  my  head  that 
I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  for  myself.  I  imagined 
myself  just  like  Candida. 

He  {catching  her  hands  and  looking  earnestly  at  her). 
You  were  right.     You  are  like  Candida. 

She  {snatching  her  hands  away).  Oh,  stuff!  And  I 
thought  you  were  just  like  Eugene.  {Looking  critically 
at  him.)  Now  that  I  come  to  look  at  you,  you  arc 
rather  like  him,  too.  {She  throws  herself  discontentedly 
into  the  nearest  seat,  which  happens  to  be  the  bench  at 
the  piano.     He  goes  to  her.) 

He   {very  earnestly).     Aurora:  if  Candida  had  loved 


140     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

Eugene  she  would  have  gone  out  into  the  night  with 
him  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

She  (with  equal  earnestness).  Henry:  do  you  know 
whats  wanting  in  that  play? 

He.     There  is  nothing  wanting  in  it. 

She.  Yes  there  is.  Theres  a  Georgina  wanting  in  it. 
If  Georgina  had  been  there  to  make  trouble,  that  play 
would  have  been  a  true-to-life  tragedy.  Now  I'll 
tell  you  something  about  it  that  I  have  never  told  you 
before. 

He.     What  is  that? 

She.  I  took  Teddy  to  it.  I  thought  it  would  do  him 
good;  and  so  it  would  if  I  could  only  have  kept  him 
awake.  Georgina  came  too;  and  you  should  have  heard 
the  way  she  went  on  about  it.  She  said  it  was  down- 
right immoral,  and  that  she  knew  the  sort  of  woman 
that  encourages  boys  to  sit  on  the  hearthrug  and  make 
love  to  her.  She  was  just  preparing  Teddy's  mind  to 
poison  it  about  me. 

He.     Let  us  be  just  to  Georgina,  dearest — 

She.  Let  her  deserve  it  first.  Just  to  Georgina,  in- 
deed! 

He.  She  really  sees  the  world  in  that  way.  That  is 
her  punishment. 

She.  How  can  it  be  her  punishment  when  she  likes 
it?  Itll  be  my  punishment  when  she  brings  that  budget 
of  poems  to  Teddy.  I  wish  youd  have  some  sense,  and 
sympathize  with  my  position  a  little. 

He  {going  away  from  the  piano  and  beginni?7g  to  walk 
about  rather  testily).  My  dear:  I  really  dont  care  about 
Georgina  or  about  Teddy.  All  these  squabbles  belong 
to  a  plane  on  which  I  am,  as  you  say,  no  use.  I  have 
counted  the  cost;  and  I  do  not  fear  the  consequences. 
After  all,  what  is  there  to  fear  ?  Where  is  the  difficulty  ? 
What  can  Georgina  do?  What  can  your  husband  do? 
"Wliat  can  anybody  do? 

She.     Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  propose  that  we 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     141 

should  walk  right  bang  up  to  Teddy  and  tell  him  we're 
going  away  together? 

He,     Yes.     What  can  be  simpler? 

She.  And  do  you  think  for  a  moment  he'd  stand  it, 
like  that  half-baked  clergyman  in  the  play?  He'd  just 
kill  you. 

He  (coming  to  a  sudden  stop  and  speaking  with 
considerable  confidence).  You  dont  understand  these 
things,  my  darling:  how  could  you?  In  one  respect  I 
am  unlike  the  poet  in  the  play.  I  have  followed  the 
Greek  ideal  and  not  neglected  the  culture  of  my  body. 
Your  husband  would  make  a  tolerable  second-rate  heavy 
weight  if  he  were  in  training  and  ten  years  younger. 
As  it  is,  he  could,  if  strung  up  to  a  great  effort  by  a 
burst  of  passion,  give  a  good  account  of  himself  for 
perhaps  fifteen  seconds.  But  I  am  active  enough  to 
keep  out  of  his  reach  for  fifteen  seconds;  and  after  that 
I  should  be  simply  all  over  him. 

She  (rising  and  coming  to  him  in  consternation). 
What  do  you  mean  by  all  over  him? 

He  (gently).  Dont  ask  me,  dearest.  At  all  events, 
I  swear  to  you  that  you  need  not  be  anxious  about  m  e. 

She.  And  what  about  Teddy?  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  are  going  to  beat  Teddy  before  my  face  like 
a  brutal  prizefighter? 

He.  All  this  alarm  is  needless,  dearest.  Believe  me, 
nothing  will  happen.  Your  husband  knows  that  I  am 
capable  of  defending  myself.  Under  such  circumstances 
nothing  ever  does  happen.  And  of  course  /  shall  do 
nothing.     The  man  who  once  loved  you  is  sacred  to  me. 

She  (suspiciously).  Doesnt  he  love  me  still?  Has 
he  told  you  anything? 

He.  No,  no.  (He  takes  her  tenderly  in  his  arms.) 
Dearest,  dearest :  how  agitated  you  are !  how  unlike  your- 
self !  All  these  worries  belong  to  the  lower  plane.  Come 
up  with  me  to  the  higher  one.  The  heights,  the  soli- 
tudes, the  soul  world! 


142     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

She  (avoiding  his  gaze).  No:  stop:  it's  no  use^  Mr. 
Apjohn. 

He  (recoiling).     Mr.  Apjohn!!! 

She.     Excuse  me:  I  meant  Henry,  of  course. 

He.  How  could  you  even  think  of  m  e  as  Mr.  Ap- 
john? I  never  think  of  you  as  Mrs.  Bompas:  it  is 
always  Cand —     I  mean  Aurora,  Aurora,  Auro — 

She.  Yes,  yes:  thats  all  very  well,  Mr.  Apjohn  {he 
is  about  to  interrupt  again:  hut  she  wont  have  it)  no: 
it's  no  use:  Ive  suddenly  begun  to  think  of  you  as  Mr. 
Apjohn;  and  it's  ridiculous  to  go  on  calling  you  Henry. 
I  thought  you  were  only  a  boy,  a  child,  a  dreamer.  I 
thought  you  would  be  too  much  afraid  to  do  anything. 
And  now  you  want  to  beat  Teddy  and  to  break  up  my 
home  and  disgrace  me  and  make  a  horrible  scandal  in 
the  papers.     It's  cruel,  unmanly,  cowardly. 

He  (with  grave  wonder).     Are  you  afraid? 

She.  Oh,  of  course  I'm  afraid.  So  would  you  be  if 
you  had  any  common  sense.  (She  goes  to  the  hearth, 
turning  her  back  to  him,  and  puts  one  tapping  foot  on 
the  fender.) 

He  (watching  her  with  great  gravity).  Perfect  love 
casteth  out  fear.  That  is  why  I  am  not  afraid.  Mrs. 
Bompas:  you  do  not  love  me. 

She  (turning  to  him  with  a  gasp  of  relief).  Oh, 
thank  you,  thank  you!  You  really  can  be  very  nice, 
Henry. 

He.     Why  do  you  thank  me? 

She  (coming  prettily  to  him  from  the  fireplace).  For 
calling  me  ]\Irs.  Bompas  again.  I  feel  now  that  you  are 
going  to  be  reasonable  and  behave  like  a  gentleman. 
(He  drops  on  the  stool;  covers  his  face  with  his  hands; 
and  groans.)     Whats  the  matter.'' 

He.  Once  or  twice  in  my  life  I  have  dreamed  that  I 
was  exquisitely  happy  and  blessed.  But  oh!  the  mis- 
giving at  the  first  stir  of  consciousness !  the  stab  of 
reality!  the  prison  walls   of  the  bedroom!  the   bitter. 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     143 

bitter  disappointment  of  waking !  And  this  time !  oh, 
this  time  I  thought  I  was  awake. 

She.  Listen  to  me,  Henry:  we  really  ha\Tit  time  for 
all  that  sort  of  flapdoodle  now.  (He  starts  to  his  feet 
OS  if  she  had  pulled  a  trigger  and  straightened  him  by 
the  release  of  a  powerful  springj  and  goes  past  her  with 
set  teeth  to  the  little  table.)  Oh,  take  care:  you  nearly 
hit  me  in  the  chin  with  the  top  of  your  head. 

He  (with  fierce  politeness).  I  beg  your  pardon. 
What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?  I  am  at  your  service.  I 
am  ready  to  behave  like  a  gentleman  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  explain  exactly  how. 

She  (a  little  frightened).  Thank  you,  Henry:  I  was 
sure  you  would.     Youre  not  angry  with  me,  are  you? 

He.  Go  on.  Go  on  quickly.  Give  me  something  to 
think  about,  or  I  will — I  will —  (he  suddenly  snatches 
up  her  fan  and  is  about  to  break  it  in  his  clenched  fists). 

She  (reaming  forward  and  catching  at  the  fan,  with 
loud  lamentation).  Dont  break  my  fan — no,  dont.  (He 
slowly  relaxes  his  grip  of  it  as  she  draws  it  anxiously 
out  of  his  hands.)  No,  really,  thats  a  stupid  trick.  I 
dont  like  that.  Youve  no  right  to  do  that.  (She  opens 
the  fan,  and  finds  that  the  sticks  are  disconnected.)  Oh, 
how  could  you  be  so  inconsiderate? 

He.     I  beg  your  pardon.     I  will  buy  you  a  new  one. 

She  (querulously).  You  will  never  be  able  to  match 
it.     And  it  was  a  particular  favorite  of  mine. 

He  (shortly).  Then  you  will  have  to  do  without  it: 
thats  all. 

She.  Thats  not  a  very  nice  thing  to  say  after  break- 
ing my  pet  fan,  I  think. 

He.  If  you  knew  how  near  I  was  to  breaking  Teddy's 
pet  wife  and  presenting  him  with  the  pieces,  you  would 
be  thankful  that  you  are  alive  instead  of — of — of  howl- 
ing about  fiveshillingsworth  of  ivory.     Damn  your  fan ! 

She.  Oh !  Dont  you  dare  swear  in  my  presence. 
One  would  think  you  were  my  husband. 


144     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

He  (again  collapsing  on  the  stool).  This  is  some 
horrible  dream.  What  has  become  of  you  ?  You  are 
not  my  Aurora. 

She.  Oh,  well,  if  you  come  to  that,  what  has  become 
of  you?  Do  you  think  I  would  ever  have  encouraged 
you  if  I  had  known  you  were  such  a  little  devil? 

He.  Dont  drag  me  down — dont — dont.  Help  me  to 
find  the  way  back  to  the  heights. 

She  (kneeling  beside  him  and  pleading).  If  you 
would  only  be  reasonable,  Henry.  If  you  would  only 
remember  that  I  am  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  and  not  go 
on  calmly  saying  it's  all  quite  simple. 

He.     It  seems  so  to  me. 

She  (jumping  up  distractedly).  If  you  say  that 
again  I  shall  do  something  I'll  be  sorry  for.  Here  we 
are,  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  frightful  precipice.  No 
doubt  it's  quite  simple  to  go  over  and  have  done  with  it. 
But  cant  you  suggest  anything  more  agreeable? 

He.  I  can  suggest  nothing  now.  A  chill  black  dark- 
ness has  fallen:  I  can  see  nothing  but  the  ruins  of  our 
dream.     (He  rises  with  a  deep  sigh.) 

She.  Cant  you?  Well,  I  can.  I  can  see  Georgina 
rubbing  those  poems  into  Teddy.  (Facing  him  deter- 
minedly.) And  I  tell  you,  Henry  Apjohn,  that  you 
got  me  into  this  mess:  and  you  must  get  me  out  of  it 
again. 

He  (polite  and  hopeless).  AU  I  can  say  is  that 
I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  What  do  you  wish  me 
to  do? 

She.     Do  you  know  anybody  else  named  Aurora? 

He.     No. 

She.  Theres  no  use  in  saying  No  in  that  frozen  pig- 
headed way.  You  must  know  some  Aurora  or  other 
somewhere. 

He.  You  said  you  were  the  only  Aurora  in  the  world. 
And  (lifting  his  clasped  fists  with  a  sudden  return  of 
his  emotion)  oh  God!  you  were  the  only  Aurora  in  the 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     145 

world  to  me.  {He  turns  away  from  her,  hiding  his 
face.) 

She  (petting  him).  Yes,  yes,  dear:  of  course.  It's 
very  nice  of  you;  and  I  appreciate  it:  indeed  I  do;  but 
it's  not  seasonable  just  at  present.  Now  just  listen  to 
me.     I  suppose  you  know  all  those  poems  by  heart. 

He.  Yes,  by  heart.  (Raising  his  head  and  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  sudden  suspicion.)     Dont  you.'' 

She.  Well,  I  never  can  remember  verses;  and  be- 
sides, Ive  been  so  busy  that  Ive  not  had  time  to  read 
them  all;  though  I  intend  to  the  very  first  moment  I 
can  get:  I  promise  you  that  most  faithfully,  Henry. 
But  now  try  and  remember  very  particularly.  Does  the 
name  of  Bompas  occur  in  any  of  the  poems.'' 

He    (indignantly).     No. 

She.     Youre  quite  sure? 

He.  Of  course  I  am  quite  sure.  How  could  I  use 
such  a  name  in  a  poem? 

She.  Well,  I  dont  see  why  not.  It  rhymes  to 
rumpus,  which  seems  appropriate  enough  at  present, 
goodness  knows !  However,  youre  a  poet,  and  you 
ought  to  know,  't" 

He.     What  does  it  matter — now? 

She.  It  matters  a  lot,  I  can  tell  you.  If  theres 
nothing  about  Bompas  in  the  poems,  we  can  say  that 
they  were  written  to  some  other  Aurora,  and  that  you 
shewed  them  to  me  because,  my  name  was  Aurora  too. 
So  youve  got  to  invent  another  Aurora  for  the  occasion. 

He  (very  coldly).     Oh,  if  you  wish  me  to  tell  a  lie — 

She.  Surely,  as  a  man  of  honor — as  a  gentleman, 
you  wouldnt  tell  the  truth,  would  you? 

He.  Very  well.  You  have  broken  my  spirit  and 
desecrated  my  dreams.  I  will  lie  and  protest  and  stand 
on  my  honor:  oh,  I  will  play  the  gentleman,  never  fear. 

She.  Yes,  put  it  all  on  me,  of  course.  Dont  be 
mean,  Henry. 

He     (rousing    himself    with    an    effort).      You    are 


146     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

quite  right,  Mrs.  Bompas:  I  beg  your  pardon.  You 
must  excuse  my  temper.  I  have  got  growing  pains,  I 
think. 

She.     Growing  pains! 

He.  The  process  of  growing  from  romantic  boyhood 
into  cynical  maturity  usually  takes  fifteen  years.  When 
it  is  compressed  into  fifteen  minutes,  the  pace  is  too 
fast;  and  growing  pains  are  the  result. 

She.  Oh,  is  this  a  time  for  cleverness?  It's  settled, 
isnt  it,  that  youre  going  to  be  nice  and  good,  and  that 
youll  brazen  it  out  to  Teddy  that  you  have  some  other 
Aurora .'' 

He.  Yes:  I'm  capable  of  anything  now.  I  should 
not  have  told  him  the  truth  by  halves;  and  now  I  will 
not  lie  by  halves.  I'll  wallow  in  the  honor  of  a  gentle- 
man. 

She.  Dearest  boy,  I  knew  you  would.  I —  Sh !  {she 
rushes  to  the  door,  and  holds  it  ajar,  listening  breath- 
lessly). 

He.     What  is  it? 

She  {white  with  apprehension).  It's  Teddy:  I  hear 
him  tapping  the  new  barometer.  He  cant  have  any- 
thing serious  on  his  mind  or  he  wouldnt  do  that.  Per- 
haps Georgina  hasnt  said  anything.  (She  steals  back 
to  the  hearth.)  Try  and  look  as  if  there  was  nothing 
the  matter.  Give  me  my  gloves,  quick.  (He  hands 
them  to  her.  She  pulls  on  one  hastily  and  begins  but- 
toning it  with  ostentatious  unconcern.)  Go  further 
away  from  me,  quick.  (He  walks  doggedly  away  from 
her  until  the  piano  prevents  his  going  farther.)  If  I 
button  my  glove,  and  you  were  to  hum  a  tune,  dont  you 
think  that — 

He.  The  tableau  would  be  complete  in  its  guiltiness. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  Mrs.  Bompas,  let  that  glove  alone: 
you  look  like  a  pickpocket. 

Her  husband  comes  in:  a  robust,  thicknecked,  well 
groomed  city  man,  with  a  strong  chin  but  a  blithering 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     147 

eye  and  credulous  mouth.  He  has  a  momentous  air,  hut 
shews  no  sign  of  displeasure:  rather  the  contrary. 

Her  Husband.  Hallo!  I  thought  you  two  were  at 
the  theatre. 

She.  I  felt  anxious  about  you,  Teddy.  Why  didnt 
you  come  home  to  dinner.'' 

Her  Husband.  I  got  a  message  from  Georgina.  She 
wanted  me  to  go  to  her. 

She.  Poor  dear  Georgina !  I'm  sorry  I  havnt  been 
able  to  call  on  her  this  last  week.  I  hope  theres  nothing 
the  matter  with  her. 

Her  Husband.  Nothing,  except  anxiety  for  my  wel- 
fare— and  yours.  (She  steals  a  terrified  look  at  Henry.) 
By  the  way,  Apjohn,  I  should  like  a  word  with  you  this 
evening,  if  Aurora  can  spare  you  for  a  moment. 

He  {formally).     I  am  at  your  service. 

Her  Husband.     No  hurry.    After  the  theatre  will  do. 

He.     We  have  decided  not  to  go. 

Her  Husband.  Indeed!  Well,  then,  shall  we  ad- 
journ to  my  snuggery? 

She.  You  neednt  move.  I  shall  go  and  lock  up  my 
diamonds  since  I'm  not  going  to  the  theatre.  Give  me 
my  things. 

Her  Husband  {as  he  hands  her  the  cloud  and  the 
mirror).     Well,  we  shall  have  more  room  here. 

He  {looking  about  him  and  shaking  his  shoulders 
loose).     I  think  I  should  prefer  plenty  of  room. 

Her  Husband.    So,  if  its  not  disturbing  you,  Rory — ? 

She.     Not  at  all.     {She  goes  out.) 

When  the  ttvo  men  are  alone  together,  Bompas  de- 
liberately takes  the  poems  from  his  breast  pocket;  looks 
at  them  reflectively;  then  looks  at  Henry,  mutely  in- 
viting his  attention.  Henry  refuses  to  understand,  doing 
his  best  to  look  unconcerned. 

Her  Husband.  Do  these  manuscripts  seem  at  all 
familiar  to  you,  may  I  ask.-* 

He.     Manuscripts  ? 


148     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

Her  Husband.  Yes.  Would  j-ou  like  to  look  at  them 
a  little  closer?     {He  proffers  them  under  Henry's  nose.) 

He  {as  with  a  sudden  illumination  of  glad  surprise). 
Why,  these  are  my  poems ! 

Her  Husband.     So  I  gather. 

He.  ^'^Tiat  a  shame!  Mrs.  Bompas  has  shewn  them 
to  you!  You  must  think  me  an  utter  ass.  I  wrote  them 
years  ago  after  reading  Swinburne's  Songs  Before  Sun- 
rise. Nothing  would  do  me  then  but  I  must  reel  off  a  set 
of  Songs  to  the  Sunrise.  Aurora,  you  know :  the  rosy  fin- 
gered Aurora.  Theyre  all  about  Aurora.  When  Mrs. 
Bompas  told  me  her  name  was  Aurora,  I  couldnt  resist 
the  temptation  to  lend  them  to  her  to  read.  But  I  didnt 
bargain  for  your  unsympathetic  eyes. 

Her  Husband  {grinning).  Apjohn:  thats  really  very 
ready  of  you.  You  are  cut  out  for  literature;  and  the 
day  will  come  when  Rory  and  I  will  be  proud  to  have 
you  about  the  house.  I  have  heard  far  thinner  stories 
from  much  older  men. 

He  {jvith  an  air  of  great  surprise).  Do  you  mean  to 
imply  that  you  dont  believe  me.'* 

Her  Husband.     Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  you.'' 

He.     Why  not?     I  dont  understand. 

Her  Husband.  Come !  Dont  underrate  your  own 
cleverness,  Apjohn.     I  think  you  understand  pretty  well. 

He.  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  at  a  loss.  Can  you  not 
be  a  little  more  explicit? 

Her  Husband.  Dont  overdo  it,  old  chap.  However, 
I  will  just  be  so  far  explicit  as  to  say  that  if  you  think 
these  poems  read  as  if  they  were  addressed,  not  to  a 
live  woman,  but  to  a  shivering  cold  time  of  day  at  which 
you  were  never  out  of  bed  in  your  life,  you  hardly  do 
justice  to  your  own  literary  powers — which  I  admire 
and  appreciate,  mind  you,  as  much  as  any  man.  Come ! 
own  up.  You  wrote  those  poems  to  my  wife.  {An  in- 
ternal struggle  prevents  Henry  from  answering.)  Of 
course  you  did.      {He  throws  the  poems  on  the  table; 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     149 

and  goes  to  the  hearthrug,  where  he  plants  himself 
solidly,  chuckling  a  little  and  rvaiting  for  the  next 
move.) 

He  {formally  and  carefully).  Mr.  Bompas:  I  pledge 
you  my  word  you  are  mistaken.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  Mrs.  Bompas  is  a  lady  of  stainless  honor,  who  has 
never  cast  an  unworthy  thought  on  me.  The  fact  that 
she  has  shewn  you  my  poems — 

Her  Husband.  Thats  not  a  fact.  I  came  by  them 
without  her  knowledge.     She  didnt  show  them  to  me. 

He.  Does  not  that  prove  their  perfect  innocence? 
She  would  have  shewn  them  to  you  at  once  if  she  had 
taken  your  quite  unfounded  view  of  them. 

Her  Husband  (shaken).  Apjohn:  play  fair.  Uont 
abuse  your  intellectual  gifts.  Do  you  really  mean  that 
I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself? 

He  (earnestly).  Believe  me,  you  axe.  I  assure  you, 
on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  that  I  have  never  had  the 
slightest  feeling  for  Mrs.  Bompas  beyond  the  ordinary 
esteem  and  regard  of  a  pleasant  acquaintance. 

Her  Husband  (shortly,  showing  ill  humor  for  the 
first  time).  Oh,  indeed.  (He  leaves  his  hearth  and  he- 
gins  to  approach  Henry  slowly,  looking  him  up  and 
down  with  growing  resentment.) 

He  (hastening  to  improve  the  impression  made  by  his 
mendacity).  I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  writing 
poems  to  her.     The  thing  is  absurd. 

Her  Husband  (reddening  ominously).  Why  is  it  ab- 
surd? 

He  (shrugging  his  shoulders).  Well,  it  happens  that 
I  do  not  admire  Mrs.  Bompas — in  that  way. 

Her  Husband  (breaking  out  in  Henry's  face).  Let 
me  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Bompas  has  been  admired  by  bet- 
ter men  than  you,  you  soapy  headed  little  puppy,  you. 

He  (much  taken  aback).  There  is  no  need  to  insult 
me  like  this.     I  assure  you,  on  my  honor  as  a — 

Her   Husband    (too  angry   to  tolerate  a   reply,  and 


150     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

boring  Henry  more  and  more  towards  the  piano).  You 
dont  admire  Mrs.  Bompas !  You  would  never  dream 
of  writing  poems  to  Mrs.  Bompas !  My  wife's  not  good 
enough  for  you,  isnt  she.  {Fiercely.)  Who  are  you, 
pray,  that  you  should  be  so  jolly  sujDerior? 

He.  Mr.  Bompas:  I  can  make  allowances  for  your 
jealousy — 

Her  Husband.  Jealousy!  do  you  suppose  I'm  jeal- 
ous of  you?  No,  nor  of  ten  like  you.  But  if  jou 
think  I'll  stand  here  and  let  you  insult  my  wife  in  her 
own  house,  youre  mistaken. 

He  {very  uncomfortable  with  his  back  against  the 
piano  and  Teddy  standing  over  him  threateningly).  How 
can  I  convince  you.-*  Be  reasonable.  I  tell  you  my  re- 
lations with  Mrs.  Bompas  are  relations  of  perfect  cold- 
ness— of  indifference — 

Her  Husband  (scornfully).  Say  it  again:  say  it 
again.  Youre  proud  of  it,  arnt  you.''  Yah!  youre  not 
worth  kicking. 

Henry  suddenly  executes  the  feat  known  to  pugilists 
as  slipping,  and  changes  sides  with  Teddy,  who  is  now 
between  Henry  and  the  piano. 

He.     Look  here:  I'm  not  going  to  stand  this. 

Her  Husband.  Oh,  you  have  some  blood  in  your 
body  after  all!     Good  job! 

He.  This  is  ridiculous.  I  assure  you  Mrs.  Bompas 
is  quite — 

Her  Husband.  What  is  Mrs.  Bompas  to  you,  I'd 
like  to  know.  I'll  tell  you  what  Mrs.  Bompas  is.  Shes 
the  smartest  woman  in  the  smartest  set  in  South  Ken- 
sington, and  the  handsomest,  and  the  cleverest,  and  the 
most  fetching  to  experienced  men  who  know  a  good 
thing  when  they  see  it,  whatever  she  may  be  to  con- 
ceited penny-a-lining  puppies  wlio  think  nothing  good 
enough  for  them.  It's  admitted  by  the  best  people; 
and  not  to  know  it  argues  yourself  unknown.  Three 
of  our  first  actor-managers  have  offered  her  a  hundred 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     l5l 

a  week  if  she'll  go  on  the  stage  when  they  start  a 
repertory  theatre;  and  I  think  they  know  what  theyre 
about  as  well  as  you.  The  only  member  of  the  present 
Cabinet  that  you  might  call  a  handsome  man  has 
neglected  the  business  of  the  country  to  dance  with  her, 
though  he  dont  belong  to  our  set  as  a  regular  thing. 
One  of  the  first  professional  poets  in  Bedford  Park 
wrote  a  sonnet  to  her,  worth  all  your  amateur  trash.  At 
Ascot  last  season  the  eldest  son  of  a  duke  excused  him- 
self from  calling  on  me  on  the  ground  that  his  feelings 
for  Mrs.  Bompas  were  not  consistent  with  his  duty  to 
me  as  host;  and  it  did  him  honor  and  me  too.  But 
(fvith  gathering  fury)  she  isnt  good  enough  for  you, 
it  seems.  You  regard  her  with  coldness,  with  indiffer- 
ence; and  you  have  the  cool  cheek  to  tell  me  so  to  my 
face.  For  two  pins  I'd  flatten  your  nose  in  to  teach  you 
manners.  Introducing  a  fine  woman  to  you  is  casting 
pearls  before  swine  (yelling  at  him)  before  swine! 
d'ye  hear.'' 

He  (with  a  deplorable  lack  of  polish).  You  call  me 
a  swine  again  and  I'll  land  you  one  on  the  chin  thatU 
make  your  head  sing  for  a  week. 

Her  Husband  (exploding).     What — ! 

He  charges  at  Henry  with  bull-like  fury.  Henry 
places  himself  on  guard  in  the  manner  of  a  well  taught 
boxer,  and  gets  away  smartly,  but  unfortunately  forgets 
the  stool  which  is  just  behind  him.  He  falls  backwards 
over  it,  unintentionally  pushing  it  against  the  shins  of 
Bompas,  who  falls  forward  over  it.  Mrs.  Bompas,  with 
a  scream,  rushes  into  the  room  between  the  S'prawling 
champions,  and  sits  down  on  the  floor  in  order  to  get 
her  right  arm  round  her  husband's  neck. 

She.  You  shant,  Teddy:  you  shant.  You  will  be 
killed :  he  is  a  prizefighter. 

Her  Husband  (vengefully).  I'll  prizefight  him. 
(He  struggles  vainly  to  free  himself  from  her  em- 
brace.) 


152     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

She.  Henry:  dont  let  him  fight  you.  Promise  me 
that  you  wont. 

He  (ruefully).  I  have  got  a  most  frightful  bump  on 
the  back  of  my  head.     (He  tries  to  rise.) 

She  (reaching  out  her  left  hand  to  seize  his  coat 
tail,  and  pulling  him  down  again,  whilst  keeping  fast 
hold  of  Teddy  with  the  other  hand).  Not  until  you 
have  promised:  not  until  you  both  have  promised. 
(Teddy  rises  to  rise:  she  pulls  him  back  again.) 
Teddy:  you  promise,  dont  you?  Yes,  yes.  Be  good: 
you  promise. 

Her  Husband.     I  wont,  unless  he  takes  it  back. 

She.  He  will:  he  does.  You  take  it  back,  Henry? 
— yes. 

He  (savagely).  Yes.  I  take  it  back.  (She  lets  go 
his  coat.  He  gets  up.  So  does  Teddy.)  I  take  it  all 
back,  all,  without  reserve. 

She  (on  the  carpet).  Is  nobody  going  to  help  me  up? 
(They  each  take  a  hand  and  pull  her  up.)  Now  wont 
you  shake  hands  and  be  good? 

He  (recklessly).  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  have  steeped  myself  in  lies  for  your  sake;  and  the 
only  reward  I  get  is  a  lump  on  the  back  of  my  head 
the  size  of  an  apple.  Now  I  ^vill  go  back  to  the  straight 
path. 

She.     Henry:  for  Heaven's  sake — 

He.  It's  no  use.  Your  husband  is  a  fool  and  a 
brute— 

Her  Husband.     Whats  that  you  say? 

He.  I  say  you  are  a  fool  and  a  brute;  and  if  youll 
step  outside  with  me  I'll  say  it  again.  (Teddy  begins 
to  take  off  his  coat  for  combat.)  Those  poems  were 
written  to  your  wife,  every  word  of  them,  and  to  no- 
body else.  (The  scowl  clears  away  from  Bompas's 
countenance.  Radiant,  he  replaces  his  coat.)  I  wrote 
them  because  I  loved  her.  I  thought  her  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world;  and  I  told  her  so  over 


How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband     153 

and  over  again.  I  adored  her:  do  you  hear?  I  told  her 
that  you  were  a  sordid  commercial  chump,  utterly  xm- 
worthy  of  her;  and  so  you  are. 

Her  Husband  (so  gratified,  he  can  hardly  believe  his 
ears).     You  dont  mean  it! 

He.  Yes,  I  do  mean  it,  and  a  lot  more  too.  I  asked 
Mrs.  Bompas  to  walk  out  of  the  house  with  me — to 
leave  you — to  get  divorced  from  you  and  marry  me.  I 
begged  and  implored  her  to  do  it  this  very  night.  It 
was  her  refusal  that  ended  everything  between  us. 
{Looking  very  disparagingly  at  him.)  What  she  can 
see  in  you,  goodness  only  knows ! 

Her  Husband  {beaming  with  remorse).  My  dear 
chap,  why  didnt  you  say  so  before  ?  I  apologize.  Come  ! 
dont  bear  malice:  shake  hands.  Make  him  shake  hands, 
Rory. 

She.  For  my  sake,  Henry.  After  all,  hes  my  hus- 
band. Forgive  him.  Take  his  hand.  {Henry,  dazed, 
lets  her  take  his  hand  and  place  it  in  Teddy's.) 

Her  Husband  {shaking  it  heartily).  Youve  got  to 
own  that  none  of  your  literary  heroines  can  touch  my 
Rory.  {He  turns  to  her  and  claps  her  with  fond  pride 
on  the  shoulder.)  Eh,  Rory?  They  cant  resist  you: 
none  of  em.  Never  knew  a  man  yet  that  could  hold  out 
three  days. 

She.  Dont  be  foolish,  Teddy.  I  hope  you  were  not 
really  hurt,  Henry.  {She  feels  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  flinches.)  Oh,  poor  boy,  what  a  bump!  I  must  get 
some  vinegar  and  brown  paper.  {She  goes  to  the  bell 
and  rings.) 

Her  Husband.  Will  you  do  me  a  great  favor,  Ap- 
.  I  hardly  like  to  ask ;  but  it  would  be  a  real  kind- 
ness to  us  both. 

He.     What  can  I  do? 

Her  Husband  {taking  up  the  poems).  Well,  may  I 
get  these  printed?  It  shall  be  done  in  the  best  style. 
The   finest  paper,   sumptuous   binding,   everything   first 


154     How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband 

class.  Theyre  beautiful  poems.  I  should  like  to  shew 
them  about  a  bit. 

She  (running  back  from  the  bell,  delighted  with  the 
idea,  and  coming  between  them).  Oh  Henry^  if  you 
wouldnt  mind! 

He.  Oh,  I  dont  mind.  I  am  past  minding  anything. 
I  have  grown  too  fast  this  evening. 

She.     How  old  are  you^  Henry? 

He.  This  morning  I  was  eighteen.  Now  I  am — 
confound  it!  I'm  quoting  that  beast  of  a  play  (he  takes 
the  Candida  tickets  out  of  his  pocket  and  tears  them  up 
viciously). 

Her  Husband.  What  shall  we  call  the  volume.  To 
Aurora,  or  something  like  that,  eh? 

He.     I  should  call  it  How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband. 


MAJOR  BARBARA 
1905 


PREFACE  TO  MAJOR  BARBARA 

FIRST   AID   TO   CRITICS 

Before  dealing  with  the  deeper  aspects  of  Major  Bar- 
bara, let  me,  for  the  credit  of  English  literature,  make 
a  protest  against  an  unpatriotic  habit  into  which  many 
of  my  critics  have  fallen.  Whenever  my  view  strikes 
them  as  being  at  all  outside  the  range  of,  say,  an  ordi- 
nary suburban  churchwarden,  they  conclude  that  I  am 
echoing  Schopenhauer,  Nietzsche,  Ibsen,  Strindberg, 
Tolstoy,  or  some  other  heresiarch  in  northern  or  eastern 
Europe. 

I  confess  there  is  something  flattering  in  this  simple 
faith  in  my  accomplishment  as  a  linguist  and  my  erudi- 
tion as  a  philosopher.  But  I  cannot  tolerate  the  as- 
sumption that  life  and  literature  is  so  poor  in  these 
islands  that  we  must  go  abroad  for  all  dramatic  material 
that  is  not  common  and  all  ideas  that  are  not  super- 
ficial. I  therefore  venture  to  put  my  critics  in  posses- 
sion of  certain  facts  concerning  my  contact  with  modern 
ideas. 

About  half  a  century  ago,  an  Irish  novelist,  Charles 
Lever,  wrote  a  story  entitled  A  Day's  Ride:  A  Life's 
Romance.  It  was  published  by  Charles  Dickens  in 
Household  Words,  and  proved  so  strange  to  the  public 
taste  that  Dickens  pressed  Lever  to  make  short  work  of 
it.  I  read  scraps  of  this  novel  when  I  was  a  child; 
and  it  made  an  enduring  impression  on  me.  The  hero 
was  a  very  romantic  hero,  trying  to  live  bravely,  chival- 
rously, and  powerfully  by  dint  of  mere  romance-fed 
157 


158  Major  Barbara 

imagination^  without  courage,  without  means,  without 
knowledge,  without  skill,  without  anything  real  except 
his  bodily  appetites.  Even  in  my  childhood  I  found 
in  this  poor  devil's  unsuccessful  encounters  with  the 
facts  of  life,  a  poignant  quality  that  romantic  fiction 
lacked.  The  book,  in  spite  of  its  first  failure,  is  not 
dead:  I  saw  its  title  the  other  day  in  the  catalogue  of 
Tauchnitz, 

Now  why  is  it  that  when  I  also  deal  in  the  tragi- 
comic irony  of  the  conflict  between  real  life  and  the 
romantic  imagination,  no  critic  ever  affiliates  me  to  my 
countrj'man  and  immediate  forerunner,  Charles  Lever, 
whilst  they  confidently  derive  me  from  a  Norwegian 
author  of  whose  language  I  do  not  know  three  words, 
and  of  whom  I  knew  nothing  imtil  years  after  the 
Shavian  Anschauung  was  already  unequivocally  declared 
in  books  full  of  what  came,  ten  years  later,  to  be  per- 
functorily labelled  Ibsenism.  I  was  not  Ibsenist  even 
at  second  hand;  for  Lever,  though  he  may  have  read 
Henri  Beyle,  alias  Stendhal,  certainly  never  read  Ibsen. 
Of  the  books  that  made  Lever  popular,  such  as  Charles 
0']\lalley  and  Harry  Lorrequer,  I  know  nothing  but  the 
names  and  some  of  the  illustrations.  But  the  story  of 
the  day's  ride  and  life's  romance  of  Potts  (claiming 
alliance  with  Pozzo  di  Borgo)  caught  me  and  fascinated 
me  as  something  strange  and  significant,  though  I  al- 
ready knew  all  about  Alnaschar  and  Don  Quixote  and 
Simon  Tappertit  and  many  another  romantic  hero 
mocked  by  reality.  From  the  plays  of  Aristophanes  to 
the  tales  of  Stevenson  that  mockery  has  been  made 
familiar  to  all  'who  are  properly  saturated  with  letters. 

Where,  then,  was  the  novelty  in  Lever's  tale?  Partly, 
I  think,  in  a  new  seriousness  in  dealing  with  Potts's 
disease.  Formerly,  the  contrast  between  madness  and 
sanity  was  deemed  comic:  Hogarth  shews  us  how  fash- 
ionable people  went  in  parties  to  Bedlam  to  laugh  at  the 
lunatics.     I  myself  have  had  a  village  idiot  exhibited  to 


First  Aid  to  Critics  159 

me  as  sometliing  irresistibly  funny.  On  the  stage  the 
madman  was  once  a  regular  comic  figure:  that  was  how 
Hamlet  got  his  opportunity  before  Shakespear  touched 
him.  The  originality  of  Shakespear's  version  lay  in  his 
taking  the  limatic  sympathetically  and  seriously,  and 
thereby  making  an  advance  towards  the  eastern  con- 
sciousness of  the  fact  that  lunacy  may  be  inspiration  in 
disguise,  since  a  man  who  has  more  brains  than  his  fel- 
lows necessarily  appears  as  mad  to  them  as  one  who 
has  less.  But  Shakespear  did  not  do  for  Pistol  and 
Parolles  what  he  did  for  Hamlet.  The  particular  sort 
of  madman  they  represented,  the  romantic  make-be- 
liever, lay  outside  the  pale  of  sympathy  in  literature: 
he  was  pitilessly  despised  and  ridiculed  here  as  he  was 
in  the  east  under  the  name  of  Alnaschar,  and  was  doomed 
to  be,  centuries  later,  under  the  name  of  Simon  Tapper- 
tit.  When  Cervantes  relented  over  Don  Quixote,  and 
Dickens  relented  over  Pickwick,  they  did  not  become 
impartial:  they  simj^ly  changed  sides,  and  became 
friends  and  apologists  where  they  had  formerly  been 
mockers. 

In  Lever's  story  there  is  a  real  change  of  attitude. 
There  is  no  relenting  towards  Potts:  he  never  gains  our 
affections  like  Don  Quixote  and  Pickwick:  he  has  not 
even  the  infatuate  courage  of  Tappertit.  But  we  dare 
not  laugh  at  him,  because,  somehow,  we  recognize  our- 
selves in  Potts.  We  may,  some  of  us,  have  enough  nerve, 
enough  muscle,  enough  luck,  enough  tact  or  skill  or 
address  or  knowledge  to  carry  things  off  better  than  he 
did;  to  impose  on  the  people  who  saw  through  him;  to 
fascinate  Katinka  (who  cut  Potts  so  ruthlessly  at  the 
end  of  the  story)  ;  but  for  all  that,  we  know  that  Potts 
plays  an  enormous  part  in  ourselves  and  in  the  world, 
and  that  the  social  problem  is  not  a  problem  of  story- 
book heroes  of  the  older  pattern,  but  a  problem  of 
Pottses,  and  of  how  to  make  men  of  them.  To  fall 
back  on  my  old  phrase,  we  have  the  feeling — one  that 


160  Major  Barbara 

Alnaschar,  Pistol,  Parolles,  and  Tappertit  never  gave 
us — that  Potts  is  a  piece  of  really  scientific  natural  his- 
tory as  distinguished  from  comic  story  telling.  His 
author  is  not  throwing  a  stone  at  a  creature  of  another 
and  inferior  order,  but  making  a  confession,  with  the 
effect  that  the  stone  hits  everybody  full  in  the  conscience 
and  causes  their  self-esteem  to  smart  very  sorely.  Hence 
the  failure  of  Lever's  book  to  please  the  readers  of 
Household  Words.  That  pain  in  the  self-esteem  nowa- 
days causes  critics  to  raise  a  cry  of  Ibsenism.  I  there- 
fore assure  them  that  the  sensation  first  came  to  me 
from  Lever  and  may  have  come  to  him  from  Beyle,  or 
at  least  out  of  the  Stendhalian  atmosphere.  I  exclude 
the  hypothesis  of  complete  originality  on  Lever's  part, 
because  a  man  can  no  more  be  completely  original  in 
that  sense  than  a  tree  can  grow  out  of  air. 

Another  mistake  as  to  my  literary  ancestry  is  made 
whenever  I  violate  the  romantic  convention  that  all 
women  are  angels  when  they  are  not  devils;  that  they 
are  better  looking  than  men;  that  their  part  in  courtship 
is  entirely  passive;  and  that  the  human  female  form  is 
the  most  beautiful  object  in  nature.  Schopenhauer 
wrote  a  splenetic  essay  which,  as  it  is  neither  polite  nor 
profound,  was  probably  intended  to  knock  this  nonsense 
violently  on  the  head.  A  sentence  denouncing  the  idol- 
ized form  as  ugly  has  been  largely  quoted.  The  English 
critics  have  read  that  sentence;  and  I  must  here  affirm, 
with  as  much  gentleness  as  the  implication  will  bear, 
that  it  has  yet  to  be  proved  that  they  have  dipped  any 
deeper.  At  all  events,  whenever  an  English  playwright 
represents  a  young  and  marriageable  woman  as  being 
anything  but  a  romantic  heroine,  he  is  disposed  of  with- 
out further  thought  as  an  echo  of  Schopenhauer.  ^ly 
own  case  is  a  specially  hard  one,  because,  when  I  implore 
the  critics  who  are  obsessed  with  the  Schopenhaurian 
formula  to  remember  that  playwrights,  like  sculptors, 
study  their  figures  from  life,  and  not  from  philosophic 


First  Aid  to  Critics  161 

essays,  they  reply  passionately  that  I  am  not  a  play- 
wright and  that  my  stage  figures  do  not  live.  But  even 
so,  I  may  and  do  ask  them  why,  if  they  must  give  the 
credit  of  my  plays  to  a  philosopher,  they  do  not  give 
it  to  an  English  j^hilosopher  ?  Long  before  I  ever  read 
a  word  by  Schopenhauer,  or  even  knew  whether  he 
was  a  philosopher  or  a  chemist,  the  Socialist  revival  of 
the  eighteen-eighties  brought  me  into  contact,  both  lit- 
erary and  personal,  with  Mr.  Ernest  Belfort  Bax,  an 
English  Socialist  and  philosophic  essayist,  whose 
handling  of  modern  feminism  would  provoke  romantic 
protests  from  Schojaenhauer  himself,  or  even  Strind- 
berg.  At  a  matter  of  fact  I  hardly  noticed  Schopen- 
hauer's disparagements  of  women  when  they  came  under 
my  notice  later  on,  so  thoroughly  had  Mr.  Bax  familiar- 
ized me  with  the  homoist  attitude,  and  forced  me  to 
recognize  the  extent  to  which  public  opinion,  and  conse- 
quently legislation  and  jurisprudence,  is  corrupted  by 
feminist  sentiment. 

But  Mr.  Bax's  essays  were  not  confined  to  the  Fem- 
inist question.  He  was  a  ruthless  critic  of  current 
morality.  Other  writers  have  gained  sympathy  for 
dramatic  criminals  by  eliciting  the  alleged  "  soul  of 
goodness  in  things  evil";  but  Mr.  Bax  would  propound 
some  quite  undramatic  and  apparently  shabby  violation 
of  our  commercial  law  and  morality,  and  not  merely 
defend  it  with  the  most  disconcerting  ingenuity,  but 
actually  prove  it  to  be  a  positive  duty  that  nothing  but 
the  certainty  of  police  persecution  should  prevent  every 
right-minded  man  from  at  once  doing  on  principle.  The 
Socialists  were  naturally  shocked,  being  for  the  most 
part  morbidly  moral  people;  but  at  all  events  they  were 
saved  later  on  from  the  delusion  that  nobody  but 
Nietzsche  had  ever  challenged  our  mercanto-Christian 
morality.  I  first  heard  the  name  of  Nietzsche  from  a 
German  mathematician,  ISIiss  Borchardt,  who  had  read 
my  Quintessence  of  Ibsenism,  and  told  me  that  she  saw 


162  Major  Barbara 


•what  I  had  been  reading:  namely,  Nietzsche's  Jenseits 
von  Gut  nnd  Bose.  Which  I  protest  I  had  never  seen, 
and  could  not  have  read  with  anj  comfort,  for  want  of 
the  necessary  German,  if  I  had  seen  it. 

Nietzsche,  like  Schopenhauer^  is  the  victim  in  Eng- 
land of  a  single  much  quoted  sentence  containing  the 
phrase  "  big  blonde  beast."  On  the  strength  of  this 
alliteration  it  is  assumed  that  Nietzsche  gained  his  Euro- 
pean reputation  by  a  senseless  glorification  of  selfish 
bullying  as  the  rule  of  life,  just  as  it  is  assumed,  on 
the  strength  of  the  single  word  Superman  (Ubermensch) 
borrowed  by  me  from  Nietzsche,  that  I  look  for  the 
salvation  of  society  to  the  despotism  of  a  single  Napo- 
leonic Superman,  in  spite  of  my  careful  demonstration 
of  the  folly  of  that  outworn  infatuation.  But  even  the 
less  recklessly  superficial  critics  seem  to  believe  that 
the  modern  objection  to  Christianity  as  a  pernicious 
slave-morality  was  first  put  forward  by  Nietzsche.  It 
was  familiar  to  me  before  I  ever  heard  of  Nietzsche. 
The  late  Captain  Wilson,  author  of  several  queer 
pamphlets,  propagandist  of  a  metaphysical  system  called 
Comprehensionism,  and  inventor  of  the  term  "  Cross- 
tianity  "  to  distinguish  the  retrograde  element  in  Chris- 
tendom, was  wont  thirty  years  ago,  in  the  discussions  of 
the  Dialectical  Society,  to  protest  earnestly  against  the 
beatitudes  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  as  excuses  for 
cowardice  and  servility,  as  destructive  of  our  will,  and 
consequently  of  our  honor  and  manhood.  Now  it  is 
true  that  Captain  Wilson's  moral  criticism  of  Chris- 
tianity was  not  a  historical  theory  of  it,  like  Nietzsche's ; 
but  this  objection  cannot  be  made  to  Mr.  Stuart-Glen- 
nie,  the  successor  of  Buckl6  as  a  philosophic  historian, 
who  has  devoted  his  life  to  the  elaboration  and  propaga- 
tion of  his  theory  that  Christianity  is  part  of  an  epoch 
(or  rather  an  aberration,  since  it  began  as  recently  as 
6000  B.C.  and  is  already  collapsing)  produced  by  the 
necessity  in  which  the  numerically  inferior  white  races 


First  Aid  to  Critics  163 

found  themselves  to  impose  their  domination  on  the 
colored  races  by  priestcraft,  making  a  virtue  and  a  popu- 
lar religion  of  drudgery  and  submissiveness  in  this  world 
not  only  as  a  means  of  achieving  saintliness  of  character 
but  of  securing  a  reward  in  heaven.  Here  you  have  the 
slave-morality  view  formulated  by  a  Scotch  philosopher 
long  before  English  writers  began  chattering  about 
Nietzsche. 

As  INIr.  Stuart-Glennie  traced  the  evolution  of  society 
to  the  conflict  of  races,  his  theory  made  some  sensation 
among  Socialists — that  is,  among  the  only  people  who 
were  seriously  thinking  about  historical  evolution  at  all 
— by  its  collision  with  the  class-conflict  theory  of  Karl 
;Marx.  Nietzsche,  as  I  gather,  regarded  the  slave- 
morality  as  having  been  invented  and  imposed  on  the 
world  by  slaves  making  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  a  re- 
ligion of  their  servitude.  Mr.  Stuart-Glennie  regards 
the  slave-morality  as  an  invention  of  the  superior  white 
race  to  subjugate  the  minds  of  the  inferior  races  whom 
they  wished  to  exploit,  and  who  would  have  destroyed 
them  by  force  of  numbers  if  their  minds  had  not  been 
subjugated.  As  this  process  is  in  operation  still,  and 
can  be  studied  at  first  hand  not  only  in  our  Church 
schools  and  in  the  struggle  between  our  modern  pro- 
prietary classes  and  the  proletariat,  but  in  the  part 
played  by  Christian  missionaries  in  reconciling  the  black 
races  of  Africa  to  their  subjugation  by  European  Cap- 
italism, we  can  judge  for  ourselves  whether  the  in- 
itiative came  from  above  or  below.  My  object  here  is 
not  to  argue  the  historical  point,  but  simply  to  make  our 
theatre  critics  ashamed  of  their  habit  of  treating  Britain 
as  an  intellectual  void,  and  assuming  that  every  phil- 
osophical idea,  every  historic  theory,  every  criticism  of 
our  moral,  religious  and  juridical  institutions,  must 
necessarily  be  either  imported  from  abroad,  or  else  a 
fantastic  sally  (in  rather  questionable  taste)  totally  un- 
related to  the  existing  body  of  thought.     I  urge  them 


164  ]\Iajor  Barbara 

to  remember  tliat  this  body  of  thought  is  the  slowest  of 
growths  and  the  rarest  of  blossomings,  and  that  if  there 
is  such  a  thing  on  the  philosophic  plane  as  a  matter  of 
course,  it  is  that  no  individual  can  make  more  than  a 
minute  contribution  to  it.  In  fact,  their  conception  of 
clever  persons  parthenogenetically  bringing  forth  com- 
plete original  cosmogonies  by  dint  of  sheer  "  brilliancy  " 
is  part  of  that  ignorant  credulity  which  is  the  despair 
of  the  honest  philosopher,  and  the  opportunity  of  the 
religious  impostor. 

The    Gospel   of   St.    Andrew   Undershaft. 

It  is  this  credulity  that  drives  me  to  help  my  critics 
out  with  ]\Iajor  Barbara  by  telling  them  what  to  say 
about  it.  In  the  millionaire  Undershaft  I  have  repre- 
sented a  man  who  has  become  intellectually  and  spirit- 
ually as  well  as  practically  conscious  of  the  irresistible 
natural  truth  which  we  all  abhor  and  repudiate:  to  wit, 
that  the  greatest  of  evils  and  the  worst  of  crimes  is 
poverty,  and  that  our  first  duty — a  duty  to  which  every 
other  consideration  should  be  sacrificed — is  not  to  be 
poor.  "  Poor  but  honest,"  "  the  respectable  poor,"  and 
such  phrases  are  as  intolerable  and  as  immoral  as 
"  drimken  but  amiable,"  "  fraudulent  but  a  good  after- 
dinner  speaker,"  "  splendidly  criminal,"  or  the  like.  Se^ 
curitv^^h^ chief  pretence  of  civilization,  cannot  exist 
tvherethe  worst  of  dangers,  the  danger  of  poverty, 
hangs  over  everyone's  head,  and  where  the  alleged  pro- 
tection of  our  persons  from  violence  is  only  an  accidental 
result  of  the  existence  of  a  police  force  whose  real  busi- 
ness is  to  force  the  poor  man  to  see  his  children  starve 
whilst  idle  people  overfeed  pet  dogs  with  the  money 
that  might  feed  and  clothe  them. 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  make  people  realize  that 
an  evil  is  an  evil.  For  instance,  we  seize  a  man  and 
deliberately  do  him  a  malicious   injury:   say,  imprison 


First  Aid  to  Critics  165 

him  for  rears.  One  would  not  suppose  that  it  needed 
any  exceptional  clearness  of  wit  to  recognize  in  this  an 
act  of  diabolical  cruelty.  But  in  England  such  a  recog- 
nition provokes  a  stare  of  surprise,  followed  by  an  ex- 
planation that  the  outrage  is  punishment  or  justice  or 
something  else  that  is  all  right,  or  perhaps  by  a  heated 
attempt  to  argue  that  we  should  all  be  robbed  and  mur- 
dered in  our  beds  if  such  senseless  villainies  as  sen- 
tences of  imprisonment  were  not  committed  daily.  It 
is  useless  to  argue  that  even  if  this  were  true,  which  it 
is  not,  the  alternative  to  adding  crimes  of  our  own  to 
the  crimes  from  which  we  suff'er  is  not  helpless  sub- 
mission. Chickenpox  is  an  evil;  but  if  I  were  to  declare 
that  we  must  either  submit  to  it  or  else  repress  it  sternly 
by  seizing  everyone  who  suffers  from  it  and  punishing 
them  by  inoculation  with  smallpox,  I  should  be  laughed 
at;  for  though  nobody  could  deny  that  the  result  would 
be  to  prevent  chickenpox  to  some  extent  by  making 
people  avoid  it  much  more  carefully,  and  to  effect  a  \ 
further  apparent  prevention  by  making  them  conceal  it  i, 
very  anxiously,  yet  people  would  have  sense  enough  to 
see  that  the  deliberate  propagation  of  smallpox  was  a 
creation  of  evil,  and  must  therefore  be  ruled  out  in 
favor  of  purely  humane  and  hygienic  measures.  Yet  in 
the  precisely  parallel  case  of  a  man  breaking  into  my 
house  and  stealing  my  wife's  diamonds  I  am  expected 
as  a  matter  of  course  to  steal  ten  years  of  his  life,  tor- 
turing him  all  the  time.  If  he  tries  to  defeat  that  % 
monstrous  retaliation  by  shooting  me,  my  survivors  hang 
him.  The  net  result  suggested  by  the  police  statistics 
is  that  we  inflict  atrocious  injuries  on  the  burglars  we 
catch  in  order  to  make  the  rest  take  effectual  precautions 
against  detection;  so  that  instead  of  saving  our  wives' 
diamonds  from  burglary  we  only  greatly  decrease  our 
chances  of  ever  getting  them  back,  and  increase  our 
chances  of  being  shot  by  the  robber  if  we  are  unlucky 
enough  to  disturb  him  at  his  work. 


166  IMajor  Barbara 

But  the  thoughtless  wickedness  with  which  we  scatter 
sentences  of  imprisonment,  torture  in  the  solitary  cell 
and  on  the  plank  bed,  and  flogging,  on  moral  invalids 
and  energetic  rebels,  is  as  nothing  compared  to  the 
stupid  levity  with  which  we  tolerate  poverty  as  if  it 
were  either  a  wholesome  tonic  for  lazy  people  or  else  a 
virtue  to  be  embraced  as  St.  Francis  embraced  it.  If  a 
man  is  indolent,  let  him  be  poor.  If  he  is  drunken,  let 
him  be  poor.  If  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  let  him  be  poor. 
fy  If  he  is  addicted  to  the  fine  arts  or  to  pure  science  in- 
stead of  to  trade  and  finance,  let  him  be  poor.  If  he 
chooses  To  spend  his  urbaneighteen  shillings  a  week  or 
his  agricultural  thirteen  shillings  a  week  on  his  beer  and 
his  family  instead  of  saving  it  up  for  his  old  age,  let  him 
be  poor.  Let  nothing  be  done  for  "  the  undeserving  " : 
let  him  be  poor.  Serve  him  right !  Also — somewhat  in- 
consistently— blessed  are  the  poor ! 

Now  what  does  this  Let  Him  Be  Poor  mean?  It 
means  let  him  be  weak.  Let  him  be  ignorant.  Let  him 
become  a  nucleus  of  disease.  Let  him  be  a  standing 
exhibition  and  example  of  ugliness  and  dirt.  Let  him 
have  rickety  children.  Let  him  be  cheap  and  let  him 
drag  his  Jellows  down  to  his  price  by  selling  himself  to 
dp  theirjvork.  Letliis  habitations  turn  our  cities  into 
poisonous  congeries  of  slums.  Let  his  daughters  infect 
our  young  men  with  the  diseases  of  the  streets  and  his 
sons  revenge  him  by  turning  the  nation's  manhood  into 
scrofula,  cowardice,  cruelty,  hypocrisy,  political  imbe- 
cility, and  all  the  other  fruits  of  oppression  and  mal- 
nutrition. Let  the  undeserving  become  still  less  de- 
serving; and  let  the  deserving  lay  up  for  himself,  not 
treasures  in  heaven,  but  horrors  in  hell  upon  earth.  This 
being  so,  is  it  really  wise  to  let  him  be  poor.''  Would 
he  not  do  ten  times  less  harm  as  a  prosperous  burglar, 
incendiary,  ravisher  or  murderer,  to  the  utmost  limits 
of  humanity's  comparatively  negligible  impulses  in  these 
directions?      Suppose  we  were  to   abolish   all   penalties 


First  Aid  to  Critics  167 

for  such  activities,  and  decide  that  poverty  is  the  one 
thing  we  will  not  tolerate — that  every  adult  with  less 
than,  say,  £365  a  year,  shall  be  painlessly  but  inexorably 
killed,  and  every  hungry  half  naked  child  forcibly  fat- 
tened and  clothed,  would  not  that  be  an  enormous  im- 
provement on  our  existing  system,  which  has  already 
destroyed  so  many  civilizations^  and  is  visibly  destroying 
ours  in  the  same  way? 

Is  there  any  radicle  of  such  legislation  in  our  parlia- 
mentary system?  Well,  there  are  two  measures  just 
sprouting  in  the  political  soil,  which  may  conceivably 
grow  to  something  valuable.  One  is  the  institution  of  a 
Legal  Minimum  Wage.  The  other.  Old  Age  Pensions. 
But  there  is  a  better  plan  than  either  of  these.  Some 
time  ago  I  mentioned  the  subject  of  Universal  Old  Age 
Pensions  to  my  fellow  Socialist  Mr.  Cobden-Sanderson, 
famous  as  an  artist-craftsman  in  bookbinding  and  print- 
ing. "Why  not  Universal  Pensions  for  Life?"  said 
Cobden-Sanderson.  In  saying  this,  he  solved  the  in- 
dustrial problem  at  a  stroke.  At  present  we  say  cal- 
lously to  each  citizen:  "If  you  want  money,  earn  it," 
as  if  his  having  or  not  having  it  were  a  matter  that 
concerned  himself  alone.  We  do  not  even  secure  for 
him  the  opportunity  of  earning  it:  on  the  contrary,  we 
allow  our  industry  to  be  organized  in  open  dependence 
on  the  maintenance  of  "  a  reserve  army  of  unemployed  " 
for  the  sake  of  "  elasticity."  "  The  sensible  course  would 
be  Cobden-Sanderson's :  that  is,  to  give  every  man  enough  ^ 
to  live  well  on,  so  as  to  guarantee  the  community  against 
the  possibility  of  a  case  of  the  malignant  disease  of  ' 
poverty,  and  then  (necessarily)  to  see  that  he  earned  it. 

Undershaft,  the  hero  of  Major  Barbara,  is  simply  a 
man  who,  having  grasped  the  fact  that  poverty  is  a 
crime,  knows  that  when  society  offered  him  the  alter- 
native of  poverty  or  a  lucrative  trade  in  death  and 
destruction,  it  offered  him,  not  a  choice  between  opulent 
villainy  and  humble  virtue,  but  between  energetic  enter- 


168  Major  Barbara 

prise  and  cowardly  infamy.  His  conduct  stands  the 
Kantian  test,  which  Peter  Shirley's  does  not.  Peter 
Shirley  is  what  we  call  the  honest  poor  man.  Under- 
shaft  is  what  we  call  the  Avicked  rich  one:  Shirley  is 
Lazarus,  Undershaft  Dives.  Well,  the  misery  of  the 
world  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  great  mass  of  men  act 
and  believe  as  Peter  Shirley  acts  and  believes.  If  they 
acted  and  believed  as  Undershaft  acts  and  believes,  the 
immediate  result  would  be  a  revolution  of  incalculable 
beneficence.  To  be  wealthy,  says  Undershaft,  is  with 
me  a  point  of  honor  for  which  I  am  prepared  to  kill 
at  the  risk  of  my  own  life.  This  preparedness  is,  as  he 
says,  the  final  test  of  sincerity.  Like  Froissart's  medi- 
eval hero,  who  saw  that  "  to  rob  and  pill  was  a  good 
life,"  he  is  not  the  dupe  of  that  public  sentiment  against 
killing  which  is  propagated  and  endowed  by  people  who 
would  otherwise  be  killed  themselves,  or  of  the  mouth- 
honor  paid  to  poverty  and  obedience  by  rich  and  in- 
subordinate do-nothings  who  want  to  rob  the  poor  with- 
out courage  and  command  them  without  superiority. 
Froissart's  knight,  in  placing  the  achievement  of  a  good 
life  before  all  the  other  duties — which  indeed  are  not 
duties  at  all  when  they  conflict  with  it,  but  plain  wicked- 
nesses— behaved  bravely,  admirably,  and,  in  the  final 
analysis,  public-spiritedly.  Medieval  society,  on  the 
other  hand,  behaved  very  badly  indeed  in  organizing 
itself  so  stupidly  that  a  good  life  could  be  achieved  by 
robbing  and  pilling.  If  the  knight's  contemporaries 
had  been  all  as  resolute  as  he,  robbing  and  pilling  would 
have  been  the  shortest  way  to  the  gallows,  just  as,  if 
we  were  all  as  resolute  and  clearsighted  as  Undershaft, 
an  attempt  to  live  by  means  of  what  is  called  "  an  inde- 
pendent income "  would  be  the  shortest  way  to  the 
lethal  chamber.  But  as,  thanks  to  our  political  imbe- 
cility and  personal  cowardice  (fruits  of  jDoverty,  both), 
the  best  imitation  of  a  good  life  now  procurable  is  life 
on  an  independent  income,  all  sensible  people  aim  at 


First  Aid  to  Critics  169 

securing  such  an  income,  and  are,  of  course,  careful  to 
legalize  and  moralize  both  it  and  all  the  actions  and 
sentiments  which  lead  to  it  and  support  it  as  an  institu- 
tion. What  else  can  they  do?  They  know,  of  course, 
that  they  are  rich  because  others  are  poor.  But  they 
cannot  help  that:  it  is  for  the  poor  to  repudiate  poverty 
when  they  have  had  enough  of  it.  The  thing  can  be 
denr  easH}'^  enough:  the  demonstrations  to  the  contrary 
made  by  the  economists,  jurists,  moralists  and  senti- 
mentalists hired  by  the  rich  to  defend  them,  or  even 
doing  the  work  gratuitously  out  of  sheer  folly  and  ab- 
jectness,  impose  only  on  the  hirers. 

The  reason  why  the  independent  income-tax  payers 
are  not  solid  in  defence  of  their  position  is  that  since 
we  are  not  medieval  rovers  through  a  sparsely  populated 
country,  tlie  poverty  of  those  we  rob  prevents  our  hav- 
ing the  good  life  for  which  we  sacrifice  them.  Rich 
men  or  aristocrats  with  a  developed  sense  of  life — men 
like  Ruskin  and  William  JNIorris  and  Kropotkin — have 
enormous  social  appetites  and  very  fastidious  personal 
ones.  They  are  not  content  with  handsome  houses :  they 
want  handsome  cities.  They  are  not  content  with  be- 
diamonded  wives  and  blooming  daughters:  they  complain 
because  the  charwoman  is  badly  dressed,  because  the 
laundress  smells  of  gin,  because  the  sempstress  is  anemic, 
because  every  man  they  meet  is  not  a  friend  and  every 
woman  not  a  romance.  They  turn  up  their  noses  at 
their  neighbors'  drains,  and  are  made  ill  by  the  archi- 
tecture of  their  neighbors'  houses.  Trade  patterns  made 
to  suit  vulgar  people  do  not  please  them  (and  they  can 
get  nothing  else)  :  they  cannot  sleep  nor  sit  at  ease  upon 
"  slaughtered  "  cabinet  makers'  furniture.  The  very  air 
is  not  good  enough  for  them:  tliere  is  too  much  factory 
smoke  in  it.  They  even  demand  abstract  conditions: 
justice,  honor,  a  noble  moral  atmosphere,  a  mystic  nexus 
to  replace  the  cash  nexus.  Finally  they  declare  that 
though  to  rob  and  pill  with  your  own  hand  on  horseback 


170  Major  Barbara 

and  in  steel  coat  may  have  been  a  good  life,  to  rob  and 
pill  by  the  hands  of  the  policeman,  the  bailiff,  and  the 
soldier,  and  to  underpay  them  meanly  for  doing  it,  is 
not  a  good  life,  but  rather  fatal  to  all  possibility  of  even 
a  tolerable  one.  They  call  on  the  poor  to  revolt,  and, 
finding  the  poor  shocked  at  their  ungentlemanliness, 
desjDairingly  revile  the  proletariat  for  its  "  damned  want- 
lessness  "   (verdammte  Bediirfnislosigkeit). 

So  far,  however,  their  attack  on  society  has  lacked 
simplicity.  The  poor  do  not  share  their  tastes  nor  un- 
derstand their  art-criticisms.  They  do  not  want  the 
simple  life,  nor  the  esthetic  life;  on  the  contrary,  they 
want  very  much  to  wallow  in  all  the  costly  vulgarities 
from  which  the  elect  souls  among  the  rich  turn  away 
with  loathing.  It  is  by  surfeit  and  not  by  abstinence 
that  they  will  be  cured  of  their  hankering  after  \m- 
wholesome  sweets.  What  they  do  dislike  and  despise 
and  are  ashamed  of  is  poverty.  To  ask  them  to  fight 
for  the  difference  between  the  Christmas  number  of  the 
Illustrated  London  News  and  the  Kelmscott  Chaucer 
is  silly:  they  prefer  the  News.  The  difference  between 
a  stockbroker's  cheap  and  dirty  starched  white  shirt  and 
collar  and  the  comparatively  costly  and  carefully  dyed 
blue  shirt  of  William  Morris  is  a  difference  so  disgrace- 
ful to  Morris  in  their  eyes  that  if  they  fought  on  the 
subj  ect  at  all,  they  would  fight  in  defence  of  the  starch. 
"  Cease  to  be  slaves,  in  order  that  you  may  become 
cranks  "  is  not  a  very  inspiring  call  to  arms ;  nor  is  it 
really  improved  by  substituting  saints  for  cranks.  Both 
terms  denote  men  of  genius;  and  the  common  man  does 
not  want  to  live  the  life  of  a  man  of  genius:  he  would 
much  rather  live  the  life  of  a  pet  collie  if  that  were  the 
only  alternative.  But  he  does  want  more  money.  AMiat- 
ever  else  he  may  be  vague  about,  he  is  clear  about  that. 
He  may  or  ftaay  not  prefer  Major  Barbara  to  the  Drury 
Lane  pantomime;  but  he  always  prefers  five  hundred 
pounds  to  five  hundred  shillings. 


First  Aid  to  Critics  171 

Now  to  deplore  this  preference  as  sordid,  and  teach 
children  that  it  is  sinful  to  desire  money,  is  to  strain 
towards  tlie  extreme  possible  limit  of  impudence  in  lying, 
and  corruption  in  hypocrisy.  J'he  universal  regard  for 
money  is  the  one  hopeful  fact  in  our  civilization,  the  one 
sound  spot  in  our  social  conscience.  INIoney  is  the  most 
important  thing  in  the  world.  It  represents  health, 
sTtrength,  honor,  generosity  and  beauty  as  conspicuously 
and  undeniably  as  the  want  of  it  represents  illness, 
weakness,  disgrace,  meanness  and  ugliness.  Not  the 
least  of  its  virtues  is  that  it  destroys  base  people  as 
certainly  as  it  fortifies  and  dignifies  noble  people.  It 
is  only  when  it  is  cheapened  to  worthlessness  for  some, 
and  made  impossibly  dear  to  otliers,  that-  it  becomes  a 
curse.  In  short,  it  is  a  curse  only  in  such  foolish  social 
conditions  that  life  itself  is  a  curse.  For  the  two  things 
are  inseparable:  money  is  the  counter  that  enables  life 
to  be  distributed  socially:  it  is  life  as  truly  as  sovereigns 
and  bank  notes  are  money.  The  first  duty  of  every 
citizen  is  to  insist  on  having  money  on  reasonable  terms; 
and  this  demand  is  not  complied  with  by  giving  four 
men  three  shillings  each  for  ten  or  twelve  hours'  drudg- 
ery and  one  man  a  thousand  pounds  for  nothing.  The 
crying  need  of  the  nation  is  not  for  better  morals,  cheaper 
bread,  temperance,  liberty,  culture,  redemption  of  fallen 
sisters  and  erring  brothers,  nor  the  grace,  love  and  fel- 
lowship of  the  Trinity,  but  simply  for  enough  money. 
And  the  evil  to  be  attacked  is  not  sin,  suffering,  greed, 
priestcraft,  kingcraft,  demagogy,  monopoly,  ignorance, 
drink,  war,  pestilence,  nor  any  other  of  the  scapegoats 
which  reformers  sacrifice,  but  simply  poverty. 

Once  take  your  eyes  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  and 
fix  them  on  this  truth  just  under  your  nose;  and  Andrew 
Undershaft's  views  will  not  perplex  you  in  the  least. 
Unless  indeed  his  constant  sense  that  he  is  only  the 
instrument  of  a  Will  or  Life  Force  which  uses  him  for 
purposes  wider  than  his  own,  may  puzzle  you.     If  so. 


172  Major  Barbara 

that  is  because  you  are  walking  either  in  artificial  Dar- 
winian darkness,  or  in  mere  stupidity.  All  genuinely 
religious  people  have  that  consciousness.  To  them  Un- 
dershaft  the  Mystic  will  be  quite  intelligible,  and  his 
perfect  comprehension  of  his  daughter  the  Salvationist 
and  her  lover  the  Euripidean  republican  natural  and  in- 
evitable. That,  hoAvever,  is  not  new,  even  on  the  stage. 
"WTiat  is  new,  as  far  as  I  know,  is  that  article  in  Under- 
shaft's  religion  which  recognizes  in  Money  the  first  need 
and  in  poverty  the  vilest  sin  of  man  and  society. 

This  dramatic  conception  has  not,  of  course,  been 
attained  per  saltum.  Nor  has  it  been  borrowed  from 
Nietzsche  or  from  any  man  born  beyond  the  Channel. 
The  late  Samuel  Butler,  in  his  own  department  the 
greatest  English  writer  of  the  latter  half  of  the  XIX 
century,  steadily  inculcated  the  necessity  and  morality 
of  a  conscientious  Laodiceanism  in  religion  and  of  an 
earnest  and  constant  sense  of  the  importance  of  money. 
It  drives  one  almost  to  despair  of  English  literature 
when  one  sees  so  extraordinary  a  study  of  English  life 
as  Butler's  posthumous  Way  of  All  Flesh  making  so 
little  impression  that  when,  some  years  later,  I  produce 
plays  in  which  Butler's  extraordinarily  fresh,  free  and 
future-piercing  suggestions  have  an  obvious  share,  I  am 
met  with  nothing  but  vague  cacklings  about  Ibsen  and 
Nietzsche,  and  am  only  too  thankful  that  they  are  not 
about  Alfred  de  ]Musset  and  Georges  Sand.  Really, 
the  English  do  not  deserve  to  have  great  men.  They 
allowed  Butler  to  die  practically  unknown,  whilst  I,  a 
comparatively  insignificant  Irish  journalist,  was  leading 
them  by  the  nose  into  an  advertisement  of  me  which  has 
made  my  own  life  a  burden.  In  Sicily  there  is  a  Via 
Samuele  Butler.  When  an  English  tourist  sees  it,  he 
either  asks  "  AVlio  the  devil  was  Samuele  Butler?"  or 
wonders  why  the  Sicilians  should  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  the  author  of  Hudibras. 

Well,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  English  are  only 


First  Aid  to  Critics  173 

too  nnxious  to  recognize  a  man  of  genius  if  somebody 
will  kindly  point  him  out  to  them.  Having  pointed  my- 
self out  in  this  manner  with  some  success,  I  now  point 
out  Samuel  Butler,  and  trust  that  in  consequence  I  shall 
hear  a  little  less  in  future  of  the  novelty  and  foreign 
origin  of  the  ideas  which  are  now  making  their  way  into 
the  English  theatre  through  plays  written  by  Socialists. 
There  are  living  men  whose  originality  and  power  are 
as  obvious  as  Butler's;  and  when  they  die  that  fact  will 
be  discovered.  Meanwhile  I  recommend  them  to  insist 
on  their  own  merits  as  an  important  part  of  their  own 
business. 

The  Salvation  Army. 

When  ]\Iajor  Barbara  was  produced  in  London,  the 
second  act  was  reported  in  an  important  northern  news- 
paper as  a  withering  attack  on  the  Salvation  Army,  and 
the  despairing  ejaculation  of  Barbara  deplored  by  a 
London  daily  as  a  tasteless  blasphemy.  And  they  were 
set  right,  not  by  the  professed  critics  of  the  theatre, 
but  by  religious  and  philosoi^hical  publicists  like  Sir 
Oliver  Lodge  and  Dr.  Stanton  Coit,  and  strenuous  Non- 
conformist journalists  like  Mr.  William  Stead,  who  not 
only  understand  the  act  as  well  as  the  Salvationists 
themselves,  but  also  saw  it  in  its  relation  to  the  religious 
life  of  tlie  nation,  a  life  ^hich  seems  to  lie  not  only 
outside  the  sympathy  of  many  of  our  theatre  critics, 
but  actually  outside  their  knowledge  of  society.  Indeed 
nothing  could  be  more  ironically  curious  than  the  con- 
frontation ^NL-ijor  Barbara  effected  of  the  theatre  en- 
thusiasts with  the  religious  enthusiasts.  On  the  one 
hand  was  the  playgoer,  always  seeking  pleasure,  paying 
exorbitantly  for  it,  suffering  unbearable  discomforts  for 
it,  and  hardly  ever  getting  it.  On  the  other  hand  was 
the  Salvationist,  repudiating  gaiety  and  courting  effort 
and  sacrifice,  yet  always  in  the  wildest  spirits,  laughing, 


174  ]\Iajor  Barbara 

joking,  singing,  rejoicing,  drumming,  and  lambourin- 
ing:  his  life  flying  by  in  a  flash  of  excitement,  and  his 
death  arriving  as  a  climax  of  triumph.  And,  if  you 
please,  the  playgoer  despising  the  Salvationist  as  a  joy- 
less person,  shut  out  from  the  heaven  of  the  theatre, 
self-condemned  to  a  life  of  hideous  gloom;  and  the  Sal- 
vationist mourning  over  the  playgoer  as  over  a  prodigal 
with  vine  leaves  in  his  hair,  careering  outrageously  to 
hell  amid  the  popping  of  champagne  corks  and  the 
ribald  laughter  of  sirens !  Could  misunderstanding  be 
more  complete,  or  sympathy  worse  misplaced? 

Fortunately,  the  Salvationists  are  more  accessible  to 
the  religious  character  of  the  drama  than  the  playgoers 
to  the  gay  energy  and  artistic  fertility  of  religion.  They 
can  see,  when  it  is  pointed  out  to  them,  that  a  theatre, 
as  a  place  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together, 
takes  from  that  divine  presence  an  inalienable  sanctity 
of  which  the  grossest  and  profanest  farce  can  no  more 
deprive  it  than  a  hypocritical  sermon  by  a  snobbish 
bishop  can  desecrate  Westminster  Abbey.  But  in  our 
professional  playgoers  this  indispensable  preliminary 
conception  of  sanctity  seems  wanting.  They  talk  of 
actors  as  mimes  and  mummers,  and,  I  fear,  think  of 
dramatic  authors  as  liars  and  pandars,  whose  main  busi- 
ness is  the  voluptuous  soothing  of  the  tired  city  specu- 
lator when  what  he  calls  the  serious  business  of  the  day 
is  over.  Passion,  the  life  of  drama,  means  nothing  to 
them  but  primitive  sexual  excitement:  such  phrases  as 
"  impassioned  poetry  "  or  "  passionate  love  of  truth  " 
have  fallen  quite  out  of  their  vocabulary  and  been  re- 
placed by  "  passional  crime  "  and  the  like.  They  as- 
sume, as  far  as  I  can  gather,  that  people  in  whom  pas- 
sion has  a  larger  scope  are  passionless  and  therefore 
iminteresting.  Consequently  they  come  to  think  of  re- 
ligious people  as  people  who  are  not  interesting  and  not 
amusing.  And  so,  when  Barbara  cuts  the  regular  Salva- 
tion Army  jokes,  and  snatches   a  kiss   from  her  lover 


First  Aid  to  Critics  175 

across  his  drum,  the  devotees  of  the  theatre  think  they 
ought  to  appear  shocked,  and  conclude  that  the  whole 
play  is  an  elaborate  mockery  of  the  Army.  And  then 
either  hypocritically  rebuke  me  for  mocking,  or  fool- 
ishly take  part  in  the  supposed  mockery ! 

Even  the  handful  of  mentally  competent  critics  got 
into  difficulties  over  my  demonstration  of  the  economic 
deadlock  in  which  the  Salvation  Army  finds  itself.  Some 
of  them  tliought  that  the  Army  would  not  have  taken 
money  from  a  distiller  and  a  cannon  founder:  others 
thought  it  should  not  have  taken  it:  all  assumed  more 
or  less  definitely  that  it  reduced  itself  to  absurdity  or 
hypocrisy  by  taking  it.  On  the  first  point  the  reply  of 
the  Army  itself  was  prompt  and  conclusive.  As  one  of 
its  officers  said,  they  would  take  money  from  the  devil 
himself  and  be  only  too  glad  to  get  it  out  of  his  hands 
and  into  God's.  They  gratefully  acknowledged  that 
publicans  not  only  give  them  money  but  allow  them  to 
collect  it  in  the  bar^sometimes  even  when  there  is  a 
Salvation  meeting  outside  preaching  teetotalism.  In 
fact,  they  questioned  the  verisimilitude  of  the  play,  not 
because  iSIrs.  Baines  took  the  money,  but  because  Bar- 
bara refused  it. 

On  the  point  that  the  Army  ought  not  to  take  such 
money,  its  justification  is  obvious.  It  must  take  the 
money  because  it  cannot  exist  without  money,  and  there 
is  no  other  money  to  be  had.  Practically  all  the  spare 
money  in  the  country  consists  of  a  mass  of  rent,  interest, 
and  profit,  every  pennj-  of  which  is  bound  up  with  crime, 
drink,  prostitution,  disease,  and  all  the  evil  fruits  of 
poverty,  as  inextricably  as  with  enterprise,  wealth,  com- 
mercial probity,  and  national  prosperity.  The  notion 
that  you  can  earmark  certain  coins  as  tainted  is  an  un- 
practical individualist  superstition.  None  the  less  the 
fact  that  all  our  money  is  tainted  gives  a  very  severe 
shock  to  earnest  young  souls  when  some  dramatic  in- 
stance of   the  taint  first  makes   them   conscious    of   it. 


1- 


176  Major  Barbara 

"When  an  enthusiastic  young  clergyman  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  first  realizes  that  the  Ecclesiastical  Com- 
missioners receive  the  rents  of  sporting  public  houses, 
brothels,  and  sweating  dens;  or  that  the  most  generous 
contributor  at  his  last  charity  sermon  was  an  employer 
trading  in  female  labor  cheapened  by  prostitution  as 
unscrupulously  as  a  hotel  keeper  trades  in  waiters'  labor 
cheapened  by  tips,  or  commissionaire's  labor  cheapened 
by  pensions;  or  that  i;he  only  patron  who  can  afford  to 
rebuild  his  church  or  his  schools  or  give  his  boys'  brigade 
a  gymnasium  or  a  library  is  the  son-in-law  of  a  Chicago 
meat  King,  that  young  clergyman  has,  like  Barbara,  a 
very  bad  quarter  hour.  But  he  cannot  help  himself  by 
refusing  to  accept  money  from  anybody  except  sweet 
old  ladies  with  independent  incomes  and  gentle  and 
lovely  ways  of  life.  He  has  only  to  follow  up  the  in- 
come of  the  sweet  ladies  to  its  industrial  source,  and 
there  he  will  fmd  Mrs.  Warren's  profession  and  the 
poisonous  canned  meat  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  His  own 
stipend  has  the  same  root.  He  must  either  share  the 
world's  guilt  or  go  to  another  planet.  He  must  save 
the  world's  honor  if  he  is  to  save  his  own.  This  is  what 
all  the  Churches  find  just  as  the  Salvation  Army  and 
Barbara  find  it  in  the  play.  Her  discovery  that  she  js 
her  father's  accanmligfi.;  that  the  Salvation  Army  is  the 
accomplice  of  the  distiller  and  the  dynamite  maker;  that 
they  can  no  more  escape  one  anotlier  than  they  can 
escape  the  air  they  breathe ;  that  there  is  no  salvation 
for  them  through  personal  righteousness,  Eut  only 
through  the  redemption  of  tlie  whole  Tlation  from  its 
vicious,  lazy,  competitive  anarchy:  this  discovery  has 
been  made  by  everyone  except  the  Pharisees  and  (ap- 
parently) the  professional  playgoers,  who  still  wear 
their  Tom  Hood  shirts  and  underpay  their  washerwomen 
without  the  slightest  misgiving  as  to  the  elevation  of 
their  private  characters,  the  purity  of  their  private  at- 
mospheres,  and  their   right  to   repudiate   as   foreign  to 


First  Aid  to  Critics  177 

themselves  the  coarse  depravity  of  the  garret  and  the 
slum.  Not  that  they  mean  any  harm:  they  only  desire 
to  be,  in  their  little  private  way,  what  they  call  gentle- 
men. They  do  not  miderstand  Barbara's  lesson  because 
they  have  not,  like  her,  learnt  it  by  taking  their  part  in 
the  larger  life  of  the  nation. 


Barbara's  Return  to  the   Colors. 

Barbara's  return  to  the  colors  may  yet  provide  a  sub- 
ject for  the  dramatic  historian  of  the  future.  To  go 
back  to  the  Salvation  Army  with  the  knowledge  that 
even  the  Salvationists  themselves  are  not  saved  yet;  that 
poverty  is  not  blessed,  but  a  most  damnable  sin;  and 
that  when  General  Booth  chose  Blood  and  Fire  for  the 
emblem  of  Salvation  instead  of  the  Cross,  he  was  per- 
haps better  inspired  than  he  knew:  such  knowledge,  for 
the  daughter  of  Andrew  Undershaft,  will  clearly  lead 
to  something  hopefuller  than  distributing  bread  and 
treacle  at  the  expense  of  Bodger. 

It  is  a  very  significant  thing,  this  instinctive  choice  of 
the  military  form  of  organization,  this  substitution  of 
the  drum  for  the  organ,  by  the  Salvation  Army.  Does 
it  not  suggest  that  the  Salvationists  divine  that  they 
must  actually  fight  the  devil  instead  of  merely  praying 
at  him?  At  present,  it  is  true,  they  have  not  quite 
ascertained  his  correct  address.  When  they  do,  they 
may  give  a  very  rude  shock  to  that  sense  of  security 
which  he  has  gained  from  his  experience  of  the  fact 
that  hard  words,  even  when  uttered  by  eloquent  essay- 
ists and  lecturers,  or  carried  unanimously  at  enthusiastic 
public  meetings  on  the  motion  of  eminent  reformers, 
break  no  bones.  It  has  been  said  that  the  French  Revo- 
lution was  the  work  of  Voltaire,  Rousseau  and  the  En- 
cyclopedists. It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  the  work  of 
men  who  .had  observed  that  virtuous  indignation,  caustic 


178  Major  Barbara 

criticism,  conclusive  argument  and  instructive  pamphlet'- 
eering,  even  when  done  by  the  most  earnest  and  witty 
literary  geniuses,  were  as  useless  as  praying,  things  go- 
ing steadily  from  bad  to  worse  whilst  the  Social  Con- 
tract and  the  pamphlets  of  Voltaire  were  at  the  height 
of  their  vogue.  Eventually,  as  we  know,  perfectly 
respectable  citizens  and  earnest  philanthropists  con- 
nived at  the  September  massacres  because  hard  experi- 
ence had  convinced  them  that  if  they  contented  them- 
selves with  appeals  to  humanity  and  patriotism,  the 
aristocracy,  though  it  would  read  their  appeals  with  the 
greatest  enjoyment  and  appreciation,  flattering  and  ad- 
miring the  writers,  would  none  the  less  continue  to 
conspire  Avith  foreign  monarchists  to  mido  the  revolution 
and  restore  the  old  system  with  every  circumstance  of 
savage  vengeance  and  ruthless  repression  of  popular 
liberties. 

The  nineteenth  century  saw  the  same  lesson  I'epeated 
in  England.  It  had  its  Utilitarians,  its  Christian  Social- 
ists, its  Fabians  (still  extant) :  it  had  Bentham,  Mill, 
Dickens,  Ruskin,  Carlyle,  Butler,  Henry  George,  and 
Morris.  And  the  end  of  all  their  efforts  is  the  Chicago 
described  by  ]\Ir.  Upton  Sinclair,  and  the  London  in 
which  the  people  who  pay  to  be  amused  by  my  dramatic 
representation  of  Peter  Shirley  turned  out  to  starve  at 
forty  because  there  are  younger  slaves  to  be  had  for  his 
wages,  do  not  take,  and  have  not  the  slightest  intention 
of  taking,  any  effective  step  to  organize  society  in  such 
a  way  as  to  make  that  everyday  infamy  impossible.  I, 
who  have  preached  and  pamphleteered  like  any  Ency- 
clopedist, have  to  confess  that  my  methods  are  no  use, 
and  would  be  no  use  if  I  were  Voltaire,  Rousseau, 
Bentham,  Mill,  Dickens,  Carlyle,  Ruskin,  George,  But- 
ler, and  Morris  all  rolled  into  one,  with  Euripides,  IMore, 
Moliere,  Shakespear,  Beaumarchais,  Swift,  Goethe,  Ib- 
sen, Tolstoy,  Moses  and  the  prophets  all  thrown  in  (as 
indeed  in  some  sort  I  actually  am,  standing  as  I  do  on 


First  Aid  to  Critics  170 

all  their  shoulders).  The  problem  being  to  make  heroes 
out  of  cowards,  we  paper  ajDostlcs  and  artist-magicians 
have  succeeded  only  in  giving  cowards  all  the  sensations 
of  heroes  whilst  they  tolerate  every  abomination,  accept 
every  plunder,  and  submit  to  every  oppression.  Chris- 
tianity, in  making  a  merit  of  such  submission,  has 
marked  only  that  depth  in  the  abyss  at  which  the  very 
sense  of  shame  is  lost.  The  Christian  has  been  like 
Dickens'  doctor  in  the  debtor's  prison,  who  tells  the 
newcomer  of  its  ineffable  peace  and  security:  no  duns; 
no  tyrannical  collectors  of  rates,  taxes,  and  rent;  no 
importunate  hopes  nor  exacting  duties;  nothing  but  the 
rest  and  safety  of  having  no  further  to  fall. 

Yet  in  the  poorest  corner  of  this  soul-destroying 
Christendom  vitality  suddenly  begins  to  germinate 
again.  Joyousness,  a  sacred  gift  long  dethroned  by  the 
hellish  laughter  of  derision  and  obscenity,  rises  like  a 
flood  miraculously  out  of  the  fetid  dust  and  mud  of  the 
slums;  rousing  marches  and  impetuous  dithyrambs  rise 
to  the  heavens  from  people  among  whom  the  depressing 
noise  called  "sacred  music"  is  a  standing  joke;  a  flag 
with  Blood  and  Fire  on  it  is  unfurled,  not  in  murderous 
rancor,  but  because  fire  is  beautiful  and  blood  a  vital 
and  splendid  red;  Fear,  which  we  flatter  by  calling  Self, 
vanishes;  and  transfigured  men  and  women  carry  their 
gospel  through  a  transfigured  world,  calling  their  leader 
General,  themselves  captains  and  brigadiers,  and  their 
whole  body  an  Army:  praying,  but  praying  only  for 
refreshment,  for  strength  to  fight,  and  for  needful 
Money  (a  notable  sign,  that) ;  preaching,  but  not 
preaching  submission;  daring  ill-usage  and  abuse,  but 
not  putting  up  with  more  of  it  than  is  inevitable;  and 
practising  what  the  world  will  let  them  practise,  includ- 
ing soap  and  water,  color  and  music.  There  is  danger 
in  such  activity ;  and  where  there  is  danger  there  is  hope. 
Our  present  security  is  nothing,  and  can  be  nothing,  but 
evil  made  irresistible. 


180  Major  Barbara 

Weaknesses   of   the    Salvation   Army. 

For  the  present,  however,  it  is  not  my  business  to 
flatter  the  Salvation  Army.  Rather  must  I  point  out 
to  it  that  it  has  almost  as  many  weaknesses  as  the 
Church  of  England  itself.  It  is  building  up  a  business 
organization  which  will  compel  it  eventually  to  see  that 
its  present  staff  of  enthusiast-commanders  shall  be  suc- 
ceeded by  a  bureaucracy  of  men  of  business  who  will 
be  no  better  than  bishops,  and  perhaps  a  good  deal  more 
unscrupulous.  That  has  always  happened  sooner  or 
later  to  great  orders  foimded  by  saints;  and  the  order 
founded  by  St.  William  Booth  is  not  exempt  from  the 
same  danger.  It  is  even  more  dependent  than  the  Church 
on  rich  people  who  would  cut  off  supplies  at  once  if  it 
began  to  preach  that  indispensable  revolt  against  pov- 
erty which  must  also  be  a  revolt  against  riches.  It  is 
hampered  by  a  heavy  contingent  of  pious  elders  who  are 
not  really  Salvationists  at  all,  but  Evangelicals  of  the 
old  school.  It  still,  as  Commissioner  Howard  affirms, 
"  sticks  to  Moses,"  which  is  flat  nonsense  at  this  time  of 
day  if  the  Commissioner  means,  as  I  am  afraid  he  does, 
that  the  Book  of  Genesis  contains  a  trustworthy  scientific 
account  of  the  origin  of  species,  and  that  the  god  to 
whom  Jephthah  sacrificed  his  daughter  is  any  less  ob- 
viously a  tribal  idol  than  Dagon  or  Chemosh. 

Further,  there  is  still  too  much  other- worldliness 
about  the  Army.  Like  Frederick's  grenadier,  the  Sal- 
vationist wants  to  live  for  ever  (the  most  monstrous  way 
of  crying  for  the  moon)  ;  and  though  it  is  evident  to 
anyone  who  has  ever  heard  General  Booth  and  his  best 
officers  that  they  would  work  as  hard  for  human  salva- 
tion as  they  do  at  present  if  they  believed  that  death 
would  be  the  end  of  them  individually,  they  and  their 
followers  have  a  bad  habit  of  talking  as  if  the  Salva- 
tionists were  heroically  enduring  a  very  bad  time  on 
earth  as  an  investment  which  will  bring  them  in  divi- 


First  Aid  to  Critics  181 

dends  later  on  in  the  form,  not  of  a  better  life  to  come 
for  the  whole  world,  but  of  an  eternity  spent  by  them- 
selves personally  in  a  sort  of  bliss  which  would  bore 
any  active  person  to  a  second  death.  Surely  the  truth 
is  that  the  Salvationists  are  unusually  happy  people. 
And  is  it  not  the  very  diagnostic  of  true  salvation  that 
it  shall  overcome  the  fear  of  death?  Now  the  man  who 
has  come  to  believe  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death, 
the  change  so  called  being  merely  the  transition  to  an 
exquisitely  happy  and  utterly  careless  life,  has  not  over- 
come the  fear  of  death  at  all:  on  the  contrary,  it  has 
overcome  him  so  completely  that  he  refuses  to  die  on 
any  terms  whatever.  I  do  not  call  a  Salvationist  really 
saved  until  he  is  ready  to  lie  down  cheerfully  on  the 
scrap  heajj,  having  paid  scot  and  lot  and  something 
over,  and  let  his  eternal  life  pass  on  to  renew  its  youth 
in  the  battalions  of  the  future. 

Then  there  is  the  nasty  lying  habit  called  confession, 
which  the  Army  encourages  because  it  lends  itself  to 
dramatic  oratory,  with  plenty  of  thrilling  incident.  For  ' 
my  part,  when  I  hear  a  convert  relating  the  violences  ' 
and  oaths  and  blasphemies  he  was  guilty  of  before  he 
was  saved,  making  out  tliat  he  was  a  very  terrible  fellow 
then  and  is  the  most  contrite  and  chastened  of  Christians 
now,  I  believe  him  no  more  than  I  believe  the  millionaire 
who  says  he  came  up  to  London  or  Chicago  as  a  boy 
with  only  three  halfpence  m  his  pocket.  Salvationists 
have  said  to  me  that  Barbara  in  my  play  would  never 
have  been  taken  in  by  so  transparent  a  humbug  as  Snobby 
Price;  and  certainly  I  do  not  think  Snobby  could  have 
taken  in  any  experienced  Salvationist  on  a  point  on 
which  the  Salvationist  did  not  wish  to  be  taken  in.  But 
on  the  point  of  conversion  all  Salvationists  wish  to  be 
taken  in ;  for  the  more  obvious  the  sinner  the  more  ob- 
vious the  miracle  of  his  conversion.  When  you  advertize 
a  converted  burglar  or  reclaimed  drunkard  as  one  of  the 
attractions  at  an  experience  meeting,  your  burglar  can 


182  Major  Barbara 

/ 

hardly  have  been  too  burglarious  or  your  drunkard  too 
drunken.  As  long  as  such  attractions  are  relied  on,  you 
will  have  your  Snobbies  claiming  to  have  beaten  their 
mothers  when  thej'^  were  as  a  matter  of  prosaic  fact 
habitually  beaten  by  them,  and  your  Rummies  of  the 
tamest  respectability  pretending  to  a  past  of  reckless 
and  dazzling  vice.  Even  when  confessions  are  sincerely 
autobiographic  there  is  no  reason  to  assume  at  once  that 
the  impulse  to  make  them  is  pious  or  the  interest  of  the 
hearers  wholesome.  It  might  as  well  be  assumed  that 
the  poor  people  who  insist  on  shewing  appalling  ulcers 
to  district  visitors  are  convinced  hygienists,  or  that  the 
curiosity  which  sometimes  welcomes  such  exhibitions  is 
a  pleasant  and  creditable  one.  One  is  often  tempted  to 
suggest  that  those  who  pester  our  police  superintendents 
with  confessions  of  murder  might  very  wisely  be  taken 
at  their  word  and  executed,  except  in  the  few  cases  in 
which  a  real  murderer  is  seeking  to  be  relieved  of  his 
guilt  by  confession  and  expiation.  For  though  I  am 
not,  I  hope,  an  unmerciful  person,  I  do  not  think  that 
the  inexorability  of  the  deed  once  done  should  be  dis- 
guised by  any  ritual,  whether  in  the  confessional  or  on 
the  scaffold. 

And  here  my  disagreement  with  the  Salvation  Army, 
and  with  all  propagandists  of  the  Cross  (to  which  I 
object  as  I  object  to  all  gibbets)  becomes  deep  indeed. 
Forgiveness,  absolution,  atonement,  are  figments :  punish- 
ment is  only  a  pretence  of  cancelling  one  crime  by  an- 
other;  and  you  can  no  more  have   forgiveness   without 

>  vindictiveness  than  you  can  have  a  cure  without  a  disease. 

;  You  will  never  get  a  high  morality  from  people  who 
conceive  that  their  misdeeds  are  revocable  and  pardon- 

'  able,  or  in  a  society  where  absolution  and  expiation  are 

'  officially  provided  for  us  all.  The  demand  may  be  very 
real;  but  the  supply  is  spurious.  Thus  Bill  Walker,  in 
my  play,  having  assaulted  the  Salvation  Lass,  presently 
finds  himself  overwhelmed  with  an  intolerable  conviction 


First  Aid  to  Critics  183 

of  sin  under  the  skilled  treatment  of  Barbara.  Straight- 
wa)'^  he  begins  to  try  to  unassault  the  lass  and  deruffian- 
ize  his  deed,  first  by  getting  punished  for  it  in  kind, 
and^  when  that  relief  is  denied  him,  by  fining  himself  a 
pound  to  compensate  the  girl.  He  is  foiled  both  ways. 
He  finds  the. Salvation  Army  as  inexorable  as  fact  itself. 
It  will  not  punish  him:  it  will  not  take  his  money.  It 
will  not  tolerate  a  redeemed  ruffian:  it  leaves  him  no 
means  of  salvatioiAMccept  ceasing  to  be  a  ruffian.  In 
doing  this,  the  Salvation  Army  instinctively  grasps  the 
central   truth    of  /^liristi-'<"i<'Y  ^nd    discards    its    central  ( 

superstition:  that  central  truth  being  the  vanity  of _i£r         J 
\^nge  and  punishment,  and  that  central  superstition  the 
saTvation  of  the  world  bj^We  gibbet. 

For,  be  it  noted,  Bi^l^P  assaulted  an  old  and  starving 
woman  also ;  and  ^^^^B.  worse  offence  he  feels  no  re- 
morse  whatever,*iHE^Bk  she   makes    it   clear   that   her 
malice  is  as  great  as^^Bbwn.     "  Let  her  have  the  law 
of  me,  as  she  said  she^Hkld,"  says  Bill:  "what  I  done 
to  her  is  no  more  pn  w^Hr'ou  might  call  my  consciefrc^ 
than  sticking  a  pig/'    .^BjfckShews  a  perfectly,  natural^ 
and   wholesome   sta^'  ^^^^Hr   ^^   ^^^^    part.      The    old.  ' 
woman,  like  the  law  she^^Hptens  him  with,  is  perfectly 
ready  to  play  tlik  game  «Bgtaliation  with  him :  to  rob 
him  if  he  steals,  to-  flog  him  if  he  strikes,  to  murder  him 
if  he  kills.     By  example  and  precept  the  law  and  public 
opinion  teach  him  to  impose  his  will  on  others  by  anger, 
violence,  and  cruelty,  and  to  wipe  off  t-he   moral  score 
by  punishment.     That  is^ound_^Crosstianity.     But  this        v/ 
Crosstianity   has    got   entangled    with    something   which        A 
Barbara     calls     Christianity,     and    which    unexpectedly  ^ 

causes  her  to  refuse  to  play  the  hangman's  game  of 
Satan  casting  out  Satan.  She  refuses  to  prosecute  a 
drunken  ruffian;  she  converses  on  equal  terms  with  a 
blackguard  whom  no  lady  could  be  seen  speaking  to  in 
the  public  street:  in  short,  she  behaves  as  illegally  and 
unbecomingly  as  possible  under  the  circumstances.    Bill's 


k 


184  Major  Barbara 

conscience  reacts  to  this  just  as  naturally  as  it  does  to 
the  old  woman's  threats.  He  is  placed  in  a  position  of 
unbearable  moral  inferiority,  and  strives  by  every  means 
in  his  power  to  escape  from  it,  whilst  he  is  still  quite 
ready  to  meet  the  abuse  of  the  old  woman  by  attempting 
to  smash  a  mug  on  her  face.  And  that  is  the  triumphant 
justification  of  Barbara's  Christianity  as  against  our 
system  of  judicial  punishment  and  the  \'indictive  villain- 
thrashings  and  "  poetic  justice  "  of  the  romantic  stage. 

For  the  credit  of  literature  it  must  be  pointed  out  that 
the  situation  is  only  partly  novel.  Victor  Hugo  long 
ago  gave  us  the  epic  of  the  convict  and  the  bishop's 
candlesticks,  of  the  Crosstian  policeman  annihilated  by 
his  encoimter  with  the  Christian  Valjean.  But  Bill 
Walker  is  not,  like  Valjean,  romantically  changed  from 
a  demon  into  an  angel.  Thei%  are  millions  of  Bill 
Walkers  in  all  classes  of  society  to-day;  and  the  point 
which  I,  as  a  professor  of  natural  psychology,  desire  to 
demonstrate,  is  that  Bill,  without  any  change  in  his 
character  whatsoever,  will  react  one  way  to  one  sort  of 
treatment  and  another  way  to  another. 

In  proof  I  might  point  to  the  sensational  object  lesson 
provided  by  ovu*  commercial  millionaires  to-day.  They 
begin  as  brigands :  merciless,  unscrupulous,  dealing  out 
ruin  and  death  and  slavery  to  their  competitors  and  em- 
ployees, and  facing  desperately  the  worst  that  their 
competitors  can  do  to  them.  The  history  of  the  English 
factories,  the  American  trusts,  the  exploitation  of  Afri- 
can gold,  diamonds,  ivory  and  rubber,  outdoes  in  vil- 
lainy the  worst  that  has  ever  been  imagined  of  the  buc- 
caneers of  the  Spanish  ^lain.  Captain  Kidd  would  have 
marooned  a  modern  Trust  magnate  for  conduct  unworthy 
of  a  gentleman  of  fortune.  The  law  every  day  seizes  on 
unsuccessful  scoundrels  of  this  type  and  punishes  them 
with  a  cruelty  worse  than  their  own,  with  the  result 
that  they  come  out  of  the  torture  house  more  dangerous 
than  they  went  in,  and  renew  their  evil  doing  (nobody 


First  Aid  to  Critics  185 

will  employ  them  at  anything  else)  until  they  are  again 
seized,  again  tormented,  and  again  let  loose,  with  the 
same  result. 

But  the  successful  scoundrel  is  dealt  with  very  differ- 
ently, and  very  Christianly.  He  is  not  only  forgiven: 
he  is  idolized,  respected,  made  much  of,  all  but  wor- 
shipped. Society  returns  him  good  for  evil  in  the  most 
extravagant  overmeasure.  And  with  what  result?  He 
begins  to  idolize  himself,  to  respect  himself,  to  live  up 
to  the  treatment  he  receives.  He  preaches  sermons;  he 
writes  books  of  the  most  edifying  advice  to  young  men, 
and  actually  persuades  himself  that  he  got  on  by  taking 
his  own  advice;  he  endows  educational  institutions;  he 
supports  charities ;  he  dies  finally  in  the  odor  of  sanctity, 
leaving  a  will  which  is  a  monument  of  public  spirit  and 
boimty.  And  all  this  without  any  change  in  his  charac- 
ter. The  spots  of  the  leopard  and  the  stripes  of  the 
tiger  are  as  brilliant  as  ever;  but  the  conduct  of  the 
world  towards  him  has  changed;  and  his  conduct  has 
changed  accordingly.  You  have  only  to  reverse  your 
attitude  towards  him — to  lay  hands  on  his  property, 
revile  him,  assault  him,  and  he  will  be  a  brigand  again 
in  a  moment,  as  ready  to  crush  you  as  you  are  to  crush 
him,  and  quite  as  full  of  pretentious  moral  reasons  for 
doing  it. 

In  short,  when  Major  Barbara  says  that  there  are  no  j 
scoundrels,  she  is  right :  there  are  no  absolute  scoun- 
drels, though  there  are  impracticable  people  of  whom  [ 
I  shall  treat  presently.  Every  practicable  man  (and 
woman)  is  a  potential  scoundrel  and  a  potential  good 
citizen.  What  a  man  is  depends  on  his  character;  but 
what  he  does,  and  what  we  think  of  what  he  does,  de- 
pends on  his  circumstances.  The  characteristics  that 
ruin  a  man  in  one  class  make  him  eminent  in  another. 
The  characters  that  behave  differently  in  different  cir- 
cumstances behave  alike  in  similar  circumstances.  Take 
a  common  English  character  like  that  of  Bill  Walker. 


186  Major  Barbara 

We  meet  Bill  everywhere:  on  the  judicial  bench,  on  the 
episcopal  bench,  in  the  Privy  Council,  at  the  War  Office 
and  Admiralty,  as  well  as  in  the  Old  Bailey  dock  or  in 
the  ranks  of  casual  unskilled  labor.  And  the  morality 
of  Bill's  characteristics  varies  with  these  various  circum- 
stances. The  faults  of  tlie  burglar  are  the  qualities  of 
the  financier:  the  manners  and  habits  of  a  duke  would 
cost  a  city  clerk  his  situation.  In  short,  though  charac- 
ter is  indejiendent  of  circumstances,  conduct  is  not;  and 
our  moral  judgments  of  character  are  not:  both  are  cir- 
cumstantial. Take  any  condition  of  life  in  which  the 
circumstances  are  for  a  mass  of  men  practically  alike: 
felony,  the  House  of  Lords,  the  factory,  the  stables, 
the  gipsy  encampment  or  where  you  please !  In  sj^ite 
of  diversity  of  character  and  temperament,  the  conduct 
and  morals  of  the  individuals  in  each  group  are  as 
predicable  and  as  alike  in  the  main  as  if  they  were  a 
flock  of  shee]!,  morals  being  mostly  only  social  habits 
and  circumstantial  necessities.  Strong  people  know  this 
and  count  upon  it.  In  nothing  have  the  master-minds 
of  the  world  been  distinguished  from  the  ordinary 
suburban  season-ticket  holder  more  than  in  their  straight- 
forward perception  of  the  fact  that  mankind  is  practi- 
cally a  single  species,  and  not  a  menagerie  of  gentlemen 
and  bounders,  villains  and  heroes,  cowards  and  dare- 
devils, peers  and  peasants,  grocers  and  aristocrats,  arti- 
sans and  laborers,  washerwomen  and  duchesses,  in  which 
all  the  grades  of  income  and  caste  represent  distinct  ani- 
mals who  must  not  be  introduced  to  one  another  or  inter- 
marry. Napoleon  constructing  a  galaxy  of  generals  and 
courtiers,  and  even  of  monarchs,  out  of  his  collection  of 
social  nobodies;  Julius  Csesar  appointing  as  governor  of 
Egypt  the  son  of  a  freedman — one  who  but  a  short  time 
before  would  have  been  legally  disqualified  for  the  post 
even  of  a  private  soldier  in  the  Roman  army;  Louis 
XL  making  his  barber  his  privy  councillor:  all  these  had 
in  their  different  wavs  a  firm  hold  of  the  scientific  fact 


First  Aid  to  Critics  187 

of  luiman  equality,  expressed  by  Barbara  in  the  Chris- 
tian formula  that  all  men  are  children  of  one  father 
A  man  wlio  believes  that  men  are  naturally  divided  into 
upper  and  lower  and  middle  classes  morally  is  making 
exactly  the  same  mistake  as  the  man  who  believes  that 
they  are  naturally  divided  in  the  same  way  socially. 
And  just  as  our  persistent  attempts  to  found  political 
institutions  on  a  basis  of  social  inequality  have  always 
produced  long  periods  of  destructive  friction  relieved 
from  time  to  time  by  violent  explosions  of  revolution; 
so  the  attempt — will  Americans  please  note — to  found 
moral  institutions  on  a  basis  of  moral  inequality  can  lead 
to  nothing  but  unnatural  Reigns  of  the  Saints  relieved 
by  licentious  Restorations;  to  Americans  who  have  made 
divorce  a  public  institution  turning  the  face  of  Europe 
into  one  huge  sardonic  smile  by  refusing  to  stay  in  the 
same  hotel  with  a  Russian  man  of  genius  who  has 
changed  wives  without  the  sanction  of  South  Dakota; 
to  grotesque  hypocrisy,  cruel  persecution,  and  final  utter 
confusion  of  conventions  and  compliances  with  benevo- 
lence and  respectability.  It  is  quite  useless  to  declare 
that  all  men  are  born  free  if  you  deny  that  they  are 
born  good.  Guarantee  a  man's  goodness  and  his  liberty 
will  take  care  of  itself.  To  guarantee  his  freedom  on 
condition  that  you  apiJrove  of  his  moral  character  is 
formally  to  abolish  all  freedom  whatsoever,  as  every 
man's  liberty  is  at  the  mercy  of  a  moral  indictment, 
which  any  fool  can  trump  up  against  everyone  who  vio- 
lates custom,  whether  as  a  prophet  or  as  a  rascal.  This 
is  the  lesson  Democracy  has  to  learn  before  it  can  be- 
come anything  but  the  most  oppressive  of  all  the  priest- 
hoods. 

Let  us  now  return  to  Bill  Walker  and  his  case  of 
conscience  against  the  Salvation  Arm3\  Major  Barbara, 
not  being  a  modern  Tetzel,  or  the  treasurer  of  a  hos- 
pital, refuses  to  sell  Bill  absolution  for  a  sovereign. 
Unfortunately,  what  the  Army  can  afford  to  refuse  in 


188  Major  Barbara 

the  case  of  Bill  Walker,  it  cannot  refuse  in  the  case  of 
Bodger.  Bodger  is  master  of  the  situation  because  he 
holds  the  purse  strings.  "  Strive  as  you  will/'  says 
Bodger,  in  effect:  "me  you  cannot  do  without.  You 
cannot  save  Bill  Walker  without  my  money."  And  the 
Army  answers,  quite  rightly  under  the  circumstances, 
"  We  will  take  money  from  the  devil  himself  sooner 
than  abandon  the  work  of  Salvation."  So  Bodger  pays 
his  conscience-money  and  gets  the  absolution  that  is 
refused  to  Bill.  In  real  life  Bill  would  perhaps  never 
know  this.  But  I,  the  dramatist,  whose  business  it  is 
to  shew  the  connexion  between  things  that  seem  apart 
and  unrelated  in  the  haphazard  order  of  events  in  real 
life,  have  contrived  to  make  it  known  to  Bill,  with  the 
result  that  the  Salvation  Army  loses  its  hold  of  him  at 
once. 

But  BiU  may  not  be  lost,  for  all  that.  He  is  still  in 
the  grip  of  the  facts  and  of  his  own  conscience,  and 
may  find  his  taste  for  blackguardism  permanently 
spoiled.  Still,  I  cannot  guarantee  that  happy  ending. 
Let  anyone  walk  through  the  poorer  quarters  of  our 
cities  Avhen  the  men  are  not  working,  but  resting  and 
chewing  the  cud  of  their  reflections;  and  he  will  find 
that  there  is  one  expression  on  every  mature  face:  the 
expression  of  cynicism.  The  discovery  made  by  Bill 
Walker  about  the  Salvation  Army  has  been  made  by 
everyone  of  them.  They  have  found  that  every  man 
has  his  price;  and  they  have  been  foolishly  or  corruptly 
taught  to  mistrust  and  despise  him  for  that  necessary 
and  salutary  condition  of  social  existence.  AMien  they 
learn  that  General  Booth,  too,  has  his  price,  they  do 
not  admire  him  because  it  is  a  high  one,  and  admit  the 
need  of  organizing  society  so  that  he  shall  get  it  in  an 
honorable  way:  they  conclude  that  his  character  is  un- 
sound and  that  all  religious  men  are  hypocrites  and 
allies  of  their  sweaters  and  oppressors.  They  know  that 
the  large  subscriptions  which  help  to  support  the  Army 


First  Aid  to  Critics  189 

are  endowments,  not  of  religion,  but  of  the  wicked  doc- 
trine of  docility  in  poverty  and  humility  under  oppres- 
sion; and  they  arc  rent  by  the  most  agonizing  of  all  the 
doubts  of  the  soul,  the  doubt  whether  their  true  salvation 
must  not  come  from  their  most  abhorrent  passions^  from 
murder,  envy,  greed,  stubbornness,  rage,  and  terrorism, 
rather  than  from  public  spirit,  reasonableness,  humanity, 
generosity,  tenderness,  delicacy,  pity  and  kindness.  The 
confirmation  of  that  doubt,  at  which  our  newspapers 
have  been  working  so  hard  for  years  past,  is  the  moral- 
ity of  militarism;  and  the  justification  of  militarism  is 
that  circumstances  may  at  any  time  make  it  the  true 
morality  of  the  moment.  It  is  by  producing  such  mo- 
ments that  we  produce  violent  and  sanguinary  revolu- 
tions, such  as  the  one  now  in  progress  in  Russia  and 
the  one  which  Capitalism  in  England  and  America  is 
daily  and  diligently  provoking. 

At  such  moments  it  becomes  the  duty  of  the  Churches 
to  evoke  all  the  powers  of  destruction  against  the  exist- 
ing order.  But  if  they  do  this,  the  existing  order  must 
forcibly  suppress  them.  Churches  are  suffered  to  exist 
only  on  condition  that  they  preach  submission  to  the 
State  as  at  present  capitalistically  organized.  The 
Church  of  England  itself  is  compelled  to  add  ^  to  the 
thirty-six  articles  in  which  it  formulates  its  religious 
tenets,  three  more  in  which  it  apologetically  protests  that 
the  moment  any  of  these  articles  comes  in  conflict  with 
the  State  it  is  to  be  entirely  renounced,  abjured,  violated, 
abrogated  and  abhorred,  the  policeman  being  a  much 
more  important  person  than  any  of  the  Persons  of  the 
Trinity.  And  this  is  why  no  tolerated  Church  nor  Sal- 
vation Army  can  ever  win  the  entire  confidence  of  the 
poor.  It  must  be  on  the  side  of  the  police  and  the 
military,  no  matter  what  it  believes  or  disbelieves;  and 
as  the  police  and  the  military  are  the  instruments  by 
which  the  rich  rob  and  oppress  the  poor  (on  legal  and 
moral  principles  made  for  the  purpose),  it  is  not  pos- 


190  Major  Barbara 

sible  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  poor  and  of  the  police  at 
the  same  time.  Indeed  the  religious  bodies,  as  the  almon- 
ers of  the  rich,  become  a  sort  of  auxiliary  police,  taking 
off  the  insurrectionary  edge  of  poverty  with  coals  and 
blankets,  bread  and  treacle,  and  soothing  and  cheering 
the  victims  witli  hopes  of  immense  and  inexpensive  hap- 
piness in  another  world  when  the  process  of  working 
tliem  to  premature  death  in  the  service  of  the  rich  is 
complete  in  this. 

Christianity  and  Anarchism. 

Such  is  the  false  position  from  which  neither  the  Sal- 
vation Army  nor  the  Church  of  England  nor  any  other 
religious  organization  whatever  can  escape  except 
through  a  reconstitution  of  society.  Nor  can  they 
merely  endure  the  State  passivel}^,  washing  their  hands 
of  its  sins.  The  State  is  constantly  forcing  the  con- 
sciences of  men  by  violence  and  cruelty.  Not  content 
with  exacting  money  from  us  for  the  maintenance  of  its 
soldiers  and  policemen,  its  gaolers  and  executioners,  it 
forces  us  to  take  an  active  personal  part  in  its  proceed- 
ings on  pain  of  becoming  ourselves  the  victims  of  its 
violence.  As  I  write  these  lines,  a  sensational  example 
is  given  to  the  world.  A  royal  marriage  has  been  cele- 
brated, first  by  sacrament  in  a  cathedral,  and  then  by  a 
bullfight  having  for  its  main  amusement  the  spectacle  of 
horses  gored  and  disembowelled  by  the  bull,  after  which, 
when  the  bull  is  so  exhausted  as  to  be  no  longer  dan- 
gerous, he  is  killed  by  a  cautious  matador.  But  the 
ironic  contrast  between  the  bull  fight  and  the  sacrament 
of  marriage  does  not  move  anyone.  Another  contrast — 
that  between  the  splendor,  the  happiness,  the  atmosphere 
of  kindly  admiration  surrounding  the  young  couple,  and 
the  price  paid  for  it  under  our  abominable  social  ar- 
rangements in  the  miserj^,  squalor  and  degradation  of 
millions  of  other  young  couples — is  drawn  at  the  same 


First  Aid  to  Critics  191 

moment  by  a  novelist,  Mr.  UiDton  Sinclair,  who  chips  a 
corner  of  the  veneering  from  the  huge  meat  packing 
industries  of  Chicago,  and  shews  it  to  us  as  a  sample 
of  what  is  going  on  all  over  the  world  underneath  the 
top  layer  of  prosperous  plutocracy.  One  man  is  suffi- 
ciently moved  by  that  contrast  to  pay  his  own  life  as 
the  price  of  one  terrible  blow  at  the  responsible  parties. 
Unhappily  his  poverty  leaves  him  also  ignorant  enough 
to  be  duped  by  the  pretence  that  the  innocent  young 
bride  and  bridegroom,  put  forth  and  crowned  by 
plutocracy  as  the  heads  of  a  State  in  which  they  have 
less  personal  power  than  any  policeman,  and  less  influ- 
ence than  any  chairman  of  a  trust,  are  responsible.  At 
them  accordingly  he  launches  his  sixpennorth  of  ful- 
minate, missing  his  mark,  but  scattering  the  bowels  of 
as  many  horses  as  any  bull  in  the  arena,  and  slaying 
twenty-three  persons,  besides  wounding  ninetynine. 
And  of  all  these,  the  horses  alone  are  innocent  of  the 
guilt  he  is  avenging:  had  he  blown  all  Madrid  to  atoms 
with  every  adult  person  in  it,  not  one  could  have  escaped 
the  charge  of  being  an  accessory,  before,  at,  and  after 
the  fact,  to  poverty  and  prostitution,  to  such  wholesale 
massacre  of  infants  as  Herod  never  dreamt  of,  to  plague, 
pestilence  and  famine,  battle,  murder  and  lingering 
death — perhaps  not  one  who  had  not  helped,  through 
example,  precept,  connivance,  and  even  clamor,  to  teach 
the  dynamiter  his  well-learnt  gospel  of  hatred  and  ven- 
geance, by  approving  every  day  of  sentences  of  years  of 
imprisonment  so  infernal  in  its  imnatural  stupidity  and 
panic-stricken  cruelty,  that  their  advocates  can  disavow 
neither  tlie  dagger  nor  the  bomb  without  stripping  the 
mask  of  justice  and  humanity  from  themselves  also. 

Be  it  noted  that  at  this  very  moment  there  appears  the 
biography  of  one  of  our  dukes,  who,  being  Scotch,  could 
argue  about  politics,  and  therefore  stood  out  as  a  great 
brain  among  our  aristocrats.  And  what,  if  you  please, 
was  his  grace's  favorite  historical  episode,  which  he  de- 


192  Major  Barbara 

clared  he  never  read  without  intense  satisfaction?  "N^liy, 
the  3'oung  General  Bonapart's  pounding  of  the  Paris 
mob  to  pieces  in  1795,  called  in  playful  approval  by  our 
respectable  classes  "  the  whiff  of  grapeshot,"  though 
Napoleon,  to  do  him  justice,  took  a  deeper  view  of  it, 
and  would  fain  have  had  it  forgotten.  And  since  the 
Duke  of  Argyll  was  not  a  demon,  but  a  man  of  like 
passions  with  ourselves,  by  no  means  rancorous  or  cruel 
as  men  go,  who  can  doubt  that  ail  over  the  world  pro- 
letarians of  the  ducal  kidney  are  now  revelling  in  "  the 
whiff  of  dynamite  "  (the  flavor  of  the  joke  seems  to 
evaporate  a  little,  does  it  not?)  because  it  was  aimed  at 
the  class  they  hate  even  as  our  argute  duke  hated  what 
he  called  the  mob. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  there  can  be  only  one  sequel 
to  the  Madrid  explosion.  All  Europe  burns  to  emulate 
it.  Vengeance!  More  blood!  Tear  "the  Anarchist 
beast  "  to  shreds.  Drag  him  to  the  scaffold.  Imprison 
him  for  life.  Let  all  civilized  States  band  together  to 
drive  his  like  off  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  if  any  State 
refuses  to  join,  make  war  on  it.  This  time  the  leading 
London  newspaper,  anti-Liberal  and  therefore  anti-Rus- 
sian in  politics,  does  not  say  "  Serve  you  right "  to  the 
victims,  as  it  did,  in  effect,  when  Bobrikoff,  and  De 
Plehve,  and  Grand  Duke  Sergius,  were  in  the  same 
manner  unofficially  fulminated  into  fragments.  No:  ful- 
minate our  rivals  in  Asia  by  all  means,  ye  brave  Russian 
revolutionaries;  but  to  aim  at  an  English  princess — 
monstrous  !  hideous !  hound  down  the  wretch  to  his  doom ; 
and  observe,  please,  that  we  are  a  civilized  and  merciful 
people,  and,  however  much  we  may  regret  it,  must  not 
treat  him  as  Ravaillac  and  Damiens  were  treated.  And 
meanwhile,  since  we  have  not  yet  caught  him,  let  us 
soothe  our  quivering  nerves  with  the  bullfight,  and  com- 
ment in  a  courtly  way  on  the  unfailing  tact  and  good 
taste  of  the  ladies  of  our  royal  houses,  who,  though 
presumably  of  full  normal  natural  tenderness,  have  been 


First  Aid  to  Critics  193 

so  effectually  broken  in  to  fashionable  routine  that  they 
can  be  taken  to  see  the  horses  slaughtered  as  helplessly 
as  they  could  no  doubt  be  taken  to  a  gladiator  show,  if 
that  happened  to  be  the  mode  just  now. 

Strangely  enough,  in  the  midst  of  this  raging  fire  of 
malice,  the  one  man  who  still  has  faith  in  the  kindness 
and  intelligence  of  human  nature  is  the  fulminator,  now 
a  hunted  wretch,  with  nothing,  apparently,  to  secure  his 
triumph  over  all  the  prisons  and  scaffolds  of  infuriate 
Europe  except  the  revolver  in  his  pocket  and  his  readi- 
ness to  discharge  it  at  a  moment's  notice  into  his  own 
or  any  other  head.  Think  of  him  setting  out  to  find  a 
gentleman  and  a  Christian  in  the  multitude  of  human 
wolves  howling  for  his  blood.  Think  also  of  this:  that 
at  tlie  very  first  essay  he  finds  what  he  seeks,  a  veritable 
grandee  of  Spain,  a  noble,  high-thinking,  unterrified, 
malice-void  soul,  in  the  guise — of  all  masquerades  in  the 
world! — of  a  modern  editor.  The  Anarchist  wolf,  fly- 
ing from  the  wolves  of  plutocracy,  throws  himself  on 
the  honor  of  the  man.  The  man,  not  being  a  wolf  (nor 
a  London  editor),  and  therefore  not  having  enough  sym- 
pathy with  his  exploit  to  be  made  bloodthirsty  by  it, 
does  not  throw  him  back  to  the  pursuing  wolves — gives 
him,  instead,  what  help  he  can  to  escape,  and  sends  him 
off  acquainted  at  last  with  a  force  that  goes  deeper 
than  dynamite,  though  you  cannot  make  so  much  of  it 
for  sixpence.  That  righteous  and  honorable  high  human 
deed  is  not  wasted  on  Europe,  let  us  hope,  though  it 
benefits  the  fugitive  welf  only  for  a  moment.  The 
plutocratic  wolves  presently  smell  him  out.  The  fugitive 
shoots  the  unlucky  wolf  whose  nose  is  nearest;  shoots 
himself;  and  then  convinces  the  world,  by  his  photo- 
graph, that  he  was  no  monstrous  freak  of  reversion  to 
the  tiger,  but  a  good  looking  young  man  with  nothing 
abnormal  about  him  except  his  appalling  courage  and 
resolution  (that  is  why  the  terrified  sliriek  Coward  at 
him)  :  one  to  whom  murdering  a  happy  yoimg  couple 


194  Major  Barbara 

on  their  wedding  morning  would  have  been  an  unthink- 
ably  unnatural  abomination  under  rational  and  kindly 
humafi  circumstances. 

Then  comes  the  climax  of  irony  and  blind  stupidity. 
The  wolves,  balked  of  their  meal  of  fellow-wolf,  turn 
on  the  man,  and  proceed  to  torture  him,  after  their  man- 
ner, by  imprisonment,  for  refusing  to  fasten  his  teeth 
in  the  throat  of  the  dynamiter  and  hold  him  down  until 
they  came  to  iinish  him. 

Thus,  you  see,  a  man  may  not  be  a  gentleman  nowa- 
days even  if  he  wishes  to.  As  to  being  a  Christian,  he 
is  allowed  some  latitude  in  that  matter,  because,  I  repeat, 
Christianity  has  two  faces.  Popular  Christianity  has 
for  its  emblem  a  gibbet,  for  its  chief  sensation  a  san- 
guinary execution  after  torture,  for  its  central  mystery 
an  insane  vengeance  bought  off  by  a  trumpery  expiation. 
But  there  is  a  nobler  and  profounder  Christianity  which 
affirms  the  sacred  mystery  of  Equality,  and  forbids  the 
glaring  futility  and  folly  of  vengeance,  often  politely 
called  punishment  or  justice.  The  gibbet  part  of  Chris- 
tianity is  tolerated.  The  other  is  criminal  felony.  Con- 
noisseurs in  irony  are  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  the 
only  editor  in  England  who  denounces  punishment  as 
radically  wrong,  also  repudiates  Christianity;  calls  his 
paper  The  Freethinker;  and  has  been  imprisoned  for 
two  years  for  blasphemy. 

Sane  Conclusions. 

And  now  I  must  ask  the  excited  reader  not  to  lose 
his  head  on  one  side  or  the  other,  but  to  draw  a  sane 
moral  from  these  grim  absurdities.  It  is  not  good  sense 
to  propose  that  laws  against  crime  should  apply  to  prin- 
cipals only  and  not  to  accessories  whose  consent,  counsel, 
or  silence  may  secure  impunity  to  the  principal.  If  you 
institute  punishment  as  part  of  the  law,  you  must  punish 
people  for  refusing  to  punish.     If  you  have  a  police, 


First  Aid  to  Critics  195 

part  of  its  duty  must  be  to  compel  everybody  to  assist 
the  police.  No  doubt  if  your  laws  are  unjust,  and  your 
policemen  agents  of  oppression,  the  result  will  be  an 
unbearable  violation  of  the  private  consciences  of  citi- 
zens. But  that  cannot  be  helped:  the  remedy  is,  not  to 
license  everybody  to  thwart  the  law  if  they  please,  but 
to  make  laws  that  will  command  the  public  assent,  and 
not  to  deal  cruelly  and  stupidly  with  lawbreakers. 
Everybody  disapproves  of  burglars ;  but  the  modern  bur- 
glar, when  caught  and  overpowered  by  a  householder, 
usually  appeals,  and  often,  let  us  hope,  with  success, 
to  his  captor  not  to  deliver  him  over  to  the  useless  hor- 
rors of  penal  servitude.  In  other  cases  the  lawbreaker 
escapes  because  those  who  could  give  him  up  do  not 
consider  his  breach  of  the  law  a  guilty  action.  Some- 
times, even,  private  tribunals  are  formed  in  opposition 
to  the  official  tribunals;  and  these  private  tribunals  em- 
ploy assassins  as  executioners,  as  was  done,  for  example, 
by  INIahomet  before  he  had  established  his  power  offi- 
cially, and  by  the  Ribbon  lodges  of  Ireland  in  their 
long  struggle  with  the  landlords.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, the  assassin  goes  free  although  everybody  in 
the  district  knows  who  he  is  and  what  he  has  done. 
They  do  not  betray  him,  partly  because  they  justify 
him  exactly  as  the  regular  Government  justifies  its 
official  executioner,  and  partly  because  they  would  them- 
selves be  assassinated  if  tliey  betrayed  him :  another 
method  learnt  from  the  official  government.  Given  a 
tribunal,  employing  a  slayer  who  has  no  personal  quar- 
rel with  the  slain;  and  there  is  clearly  no  moral  differ- 
ence between  official  and  unofficial  killing. 

In  short,  all  men  are  anarchists  with  regard  to  laws 
which  are  against  their  consciences,  either  in  the  pre- 
amble or  in  the  penalty.  In  London  our  worst  anarch- 
ists are  the  magistrates,  because  many  of  them  are  so 
old  and  ignorant  that  when  they  are  called  upon  to 
administer  any  law  that  is  based  on  ideas  or  knowledge 


196  Major  Barbara 

less  than  half  a  century  old,  they  disagree  with  it,  and 
being  mere  ordinary  homebred  private  Englishmen  with- 
out any  respect  for  law  in  the  abstract,  naively  set  the 
example  of  violating  it.  In  this  instance  the  man  lags 
behind  the  law;  but  when  the  law  lags  behind  the  man, 
he  becomes  equally  an  anarchist.  When  some  huge 
change  in  social  conditions,  such  as  the  industrial  revolu- 
tion of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries,  throws 
our  legal  and  industrial  institutions  out  of  date.  Anarch- 
ism becomes  almost  a  religion.  The  whole  force  of  the 
most  energetic  geniuses  of  the  time  in  philosophy, 
economics,  and  art,  concentrates  itself  on  demonstrations 
and  reminders  that  morality  and  law  are  only  conven- 
tions, fallible  and  continually  obsolescing.  Tragedies  in 
which  the  heroes  are  bandits,  and  comedies  in  which 
law-abiding  and  conventionally  moral  folk  are  compelled 
to  satirize  themselves  by  outraging  the  conscience  of  the 
spectators  every  time  they  do  their  duty,  appear  simul- 
taneously with  economic  treatises  entitled  "  What  is 
ProjDerty  ?  Theft !  "  and  with  histories  of  "  The  Con- 
flict between   Religion  and  Science." 

Now  this  is  not  a  healthy  state  of  things.  The  ad- 
vantages of  living  in  society  are  proportionate,  not  to 
the  freedom  of  the  individual  from  a  code,  but  to  the 
complexity  and  subtlety  of  the  code  he  is  prepared  not 
only  to  accept  but  to  uphold  as  a  matter  of  such  vital 
importance  that  a  lawbreaker  at  large  is  hardly  to  be 
tolerated  on  any  plea.  Such  an  attitude  becomes  im- 
possible when  the  only  men  who  can  make  themselves 
heard  and  remembered  throughout  the  world  spend  all 
their  energy  in  raising  our  gorge  against  current  law, 
current  morality,  current  respectability,  and  legal 
property.  The  ordinary  man,  uneducated  in  social  the- 
ory even  when  he  is  schooled  in  Latin  verse,  cannot  be 
set  against  all  the  laws  of  his  country  and  yet  persuaded 
to  regard  law  in  the  abstract  as  vitally  necessary  to 
societ}'.     Once  he  is  brought  to  repudiate  the  laws  and 


First  Aid  to  Critics  197 

institutions  he  knows,  he  will  repudiate  the  very  con- 
ception of  law  and  the  very  groundwork  of  institutions, 
ridiculing  human  rights,  extolling  brainless  methods  as 
"  historical,"  and  tolerating  nothing  except  pure  em- 
piricism in  conduct,  with  dynamite  as  the  basis  of  politics 
and  vivisection  as  the  basis  of  science.  That  is  hideous; 
but  what  is  to  be  done?  Here  am  I,  for  instance,  by 
class  a  respectable  man,  by  common  sense  a  hater  of 
waste  and  disorder,  by  intellectual  constitution  legally 
minded  to  the  verge  of  pedantry,  and  by  temperament 
apprehensive  and  economically  disposed  to  the  limit  of 
old-maidishness ;  yet  I  am,  and  have  always  been,  and 
shall  now  always  be,  a  revolutionary  writer,  because 
our  laws  make  law  impossible;  our  liberties  destroy  all 
freedom ;  our  property  is  organized  robbery ;  our  mo- 
rality is  an  impudent  hypocrisy;  our  wisdom  is  adminis- 
tered by  inexperienced  or  malexperienced  dupes,  our 
power  wielded  by  cowards  and  weaklings,  and  our  honor 
false  in  all  its  points.  I  am  an  enemy  of  the  existing 
order  for  good  reasons;  but  that  does  not  make  my 
attacks  any  less  encouraging  or  helpful  to  people  who 
are  its  enemies  for  bad  reasons.  The  existing  order 
may  shriek  that  if  I  tell  the  truth  about  it,  some  foolish 
person  may  drive  it  to  become  still  worse  by  trying  to 
assassinate  it.  I  cannot  help  that,  even  if  I  could  see 
what  worse  it  could  do  than  it  is  already  doing.  And 
the  disadvantage  of  that  worst  even  from  its  own  point 
of  view  is  that  society,  with  all  its  prisons  and  bayonets 
and  whips  and  ostracisms  and  starvations,  is  powerless 
in  the  face  of  the  Anarchist  who  is  prepared  to  sacrifice 
his  own  life  in  the  battle  with  it.  Our  natural  safety 
from  the  cheap  and  devastating  explosives  which  every 
Russian  student  can  make,  and  every  Russian  grenadier 
has  learnt  to  handle  in  Manchuria,  lies  in  the  fact  that 
brave  and  resolute  men,  when  they  are  rascals,  will  not 
risk  their  skins  for  the  good  of  humanity,  and,  when 
they  are  sympathetic  enough  to  care  for  humanity,  abhor 


198  IMajor  Barbara 

murder,  and  never  commit  it  until  their  consciences  are 
outraged  beyond  endurance.  The  remedy  is,  then,  simply 
not  to  outrage  their  consciences. 

Do  not  be  afraid  that  they  will  not  make  allowances. 
All  men  make  very  large  allowances  indeed  before  they 
stake  their  own  lives  in  a  war  to  the  death  with  society. 
Nobody  demands  or  expects  the  millennium.  But  there 
are  two  things  that  must  be  set  right,  or  we  shall  perish, 
like  Rome,  of  soul  atrophy  disguised  as  empire. 

The  first  is,  that  the  daily  ceremony  of  dividing  the 
wealth  of  the  country  among  its  inhabitants  shall  be  so 
conducted  that  no  crumb  shall  go  to  any  able-bodied 
adults  who  are  not  producing  by  their  personal  exertions 
not  only  a  full  equivalent  for  what  they  take,  but  a 
surplus  sufficient  to  provide  for  their  superannuation 
and  pay  back  the  debt  due  for  their  nurture. 

The  second  is  that  the  deliberate  infliction  of  malicious 
injuries  which  now  goes  on  under  the  name  of  punish- 
ment be  abandoned;  so  that  the  thief,  the  ruffian,  the 
gambler,  and  the  beggar,  may  without  inhumanity  be 
handed  over  to  the  law,  and  made  to  understand  that  a 
State  which  is  too  humane  to  punish  will  also  be  too 
thrifty  to  waste  the  life  of  honest  men  in  watching  or 
restraining  dishonest  ones.  That  is  why  we  do  not 
imprison  dogs.  We  even  take  our  chance  of  their  first 
bite.  But  if  a  dog  delights  to  bark  and  bite,  it  goes 
to  the  lethal  chamber.  That  seems  to  me  sensible.  To 
allow  the  dog  to  expiate  his  bite  by  a  period  of  torment, 
and  then  let  him  loose  in  a  much  more  savage  condition 
(for  the  chain  makes  a  dog  savage)  to  bite  again  and 
expiate  again,  having  meanwhile  spent  a  great  deal  of 
human  life  and  happiness  in  the  task  of  chaining  and 
feeding  and  tormenting  him,  seems  to  me  idiotic  and 
superstitious.  Yet  that  is  what  we  do  to  men  who  bark 
and  bite  and  steal.  It  would  be  far  more  sensible  to 
put  up  with  their  vices,  as  we  put  up  with  their  illnesses, 
until  they   give  more  trouble  than  they   are  worthy  at 


First  Aid  to  Critics  199 

which  point  we  should,  Avith  many  apologies  and  expres- 
sions of  sympathy,  and  some  generosity  in  complying 
with  their  last  wishes,  place  them  in  the  lethal  chamber 
and  get  rid  of  them.  Under  no  circumstances  should 
they  be  allowed  to  expiate  their  misdeeds  by  a  manu- 
factured penalty,  to  subscribe  to  a  charity,  or  to  com- 
pensate the  victims.  If  there  is  to  be  no  punishment 
there  can  be  no  forgiveness.  We  shall  never  have  real 
moral  responsibility  until  everyone  knows  that  his  deeds 
are  irrevocable,  and  that  his  life  depends  on  his  useful- 
ness. Hitherto,  alas !  humanity  has  never  dared  face 
these  hard  facts.  We  frantically  scatter  conscience 
money  and  invent  systems  of  conscience  banking,  with 
expiatory  penalties,  atonements,  redemptions,  salvations, 
hospital  subscription  lists  and  what  not,  to  enable  us  to 
contract-out  of  the  moral  code.  Not  content  with  the 
old  scapegoat  and  sacrificial  lamb,  we  deify  human 
saviors,  and  pray  to  miraculous  virgin  intercessors.  We 
attribute  mercy  to  the  inexorable;  soothe  our  consciences 
after  committing  murder  by  throwing  ourselves  on  the 
bosom  of  divine  love;  and  shrink  even  from  our  own 
gailows  because  we  are  forced  to  admit  that  it,  at  least, 
is  irrevocable — as  if  one  hour  of  imprisonment  were  not 
as  irrevocable  as  any  execution ! 

If  a  man  cannot  look  evil  in  the  face  without  illusion, 
he  will  never  know  what  it  really  is,  or  combat  it  effectu- 
ally. The  few  men  who  have  been  able  (relatively)  to 
do  this  have  been  called  cynics,  and  have  sometimes  had 
an  abnormal  share  of  evil  in  themselves,  corresponding 
to  the  abnormal  strength  of  their  minds;  but  they  have 
never  done  mischief  unless  they  intended  to  do  it.  That 
is  why  great  scoundrels  have  been  beneficent  rulers 
whilst  amiable  and  privately  harmless  monarchs  have 
ruined  their  countries  by  trusting  to  the  hocus-pocus  of 
innocence  and  guilt,  reward  and  punishment,  virtuous 
indignation  and  pardon,  instead  of  standing  up  to  the 
facts  without  either  malice  or  mercy.      Major   Barbara 


200  Major  Barbara 

stands  up  to  Bill  Walker  in  that  way,  with  the  result 
that  the  ruffian  who  cannot  get  hated,  has  to  hate  him- 
self. To  relieve  this  agony  he  tries  to  get  punished; 
but  the  Salvationist  whom  he  tries  to  provoke  is  as  mer- 
ciless as  Barbara,  and  only  prays  for  him.  Then  he 
tries  to  pay,  but  can  get  nobody  to  take  his  money.  His 
doom  is  the  doom  of  Cain,  who,  failing  to  find  either  a 
savior,  a  policeman,  or  an  almoner  to  help  him  to  pre- 
tend that  his  brother's  blood  no  longer  cried  from  the 
ground,  had  to  live  and  die  a  murderer.  Cain  took  care 
not  to  commit  another  murder,  unlike  our  railway  share- 
holders (I  am  one)  who  kill  and  maim  shunters  by  hun- 
dreds to  save  the  cost  of  automatic  couplings,  and  make 
atonement  by  annual  subscriptions  to  deserving  charities. 
Had  Cain  been  allowed  to  pay  off  his  score,  he  might 
possibly  have  killed  Adam  and  Eve  for  the  mere  sake 
of  a  second  luxurious  reconciliation  with  God  after- 
wards. Bodger,  you  may  depend  on  it,  will  go  on  to  the 
end  of  his  life  poisoning  people  with  bad  whisky,  be- 
cause he  can  always  depend  on  the  Salvation  Army  or 
the  Church  of  England  to  negotiate  a  redemption  for  him 
in  consideration  of  a  trifling  percentage  of  his  profits. 

There  is  a  third  condition  too,  which  must  be  fulfilled 
before  the  great  teachers  of  the  world  will  cease  to  scoff 
at  its  religions.  Creeds  must  become  intellectually  hon- 
est. At  present  there  is  not  a  single  credible  established 
religion  in  the  world.  That  is  perhaps  the  most  stu- 
pendous fact  in  the  whole  world-situation.  This  play 
of  mine.  Major  Barbara,  is,  I  hope,  both  true  and  in- 
spired; but  whoever  says  that  it  all  happened,  and  that 
faith  in  it  and  vmderstanding  of  it  consist  in  believing 
that  it  is  a  record  of  an  actual  occurrence,  is,  to  speak 
according  to  Scripture,  a  fool  and  a  liar,  and  is  hereby 
solemnly  denounced  and  cursed  as  such  by  me,  the 
author,  to  all  posterity. 

London,  June  1906. 


ACT     I 

It  is  after  dinner  on  a  January  night,  in  the  library  in 
Lady  Britomart  Undershaft's  house  in  Wilton  Crescent. 
A  large  and  comfortable  settee  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  upholstered  in  dark  leather.  A  person  sitting  on 
it  (it  is  vacant  at  present)  would  have,  on  his  right. 
Lady  Britomart's  rvriting-table,  with  the  lady  herself 
busy  at  it;  a  smaller  writing-table  behind  him  on  his 
left;  the  door  behind  him  on  Lady  Britomart's  side;  and 
a  window  with  a  window-seat  directly  on  his  left.  Near 
the  window  is  an  armchair. 

Lady  Britomart  is  a  woman  of  fifty  or  thereabouts, 
well  dressed  and  yet  careless  of  her  dress,  well  bred 
and  quite  reckless  of  her  breeding,  well  mannered  and 
yet  appallingly  outspoken  and  indifferent  to  the  opinion 
of  her  interlocutors,  amiable  and  yet  peremptory,  ar- 
bitrary, and  high-tempered  to  the  last  bearable  degree, 
and  withal  a  very  typical  managing  matron  of  the  upper 
class,  treated  as  a  naughty  child  until  she  grew  into  a 
scolding  mother,  and  finally  settling  down  with  plenty 
of  practical  ability  and  worldly  experience,  limited  in 
the  oddest  way  with  domestic  and  class  limitations,  con- 
ceiving the  universe  exactly  as  if  it  were  a  large  house 
in  Wiltoji  Crescent,  though  handling  her  corner  of  it 
very  effectively  on  that  assumption,  and  being  quite  en- 
lightened and  liberal  as  to  the  books  in  the  library,  the 
pictures  on  the  walls,  the  music  in  tlie  portfolios,  and 
the  articles  in  the  papers. 

Her  son,  Stephen,  comes  in.  lie  is  a  gravely  correct 
young  man  under  25,  taking  himself  very  seriously,  but 
201 


202  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

still  in  some  awe  of  his  mother,  from  childish  habit  and 
bachelor  shyness  rather  than  from  any  weakness  of  char- 
acter. 

Stephen.     Whats  the  matter? 

Lady  Britomart,     Presently,  Stephen. 

{Stephen  submissively  ivalks  to  the  settee  and  sits 
down.     He  takes  up  The  Speaker.) 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  begin  to  read,  Stephen.  I 
shall  require  all  your  attention. 

Stephen.     It  was  only  while  I  was  waiting — 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  make  excuses,  Stephen.  (He 
puts  down  The  Speaker.)  Now!  (She  finishes  her 
writing;  rises;  and  comes  to  the  settee.)  I  have  not 
kept  you  waiting  very  long,  I  think. 

Stephen.     Not  at  all,  mother. 

Lady  Britomart.  Bring  me  my  cushion.  (He  takes 
the  cushion  from  the  chair  at  the  desk  and  arranges  it 
for  her  as  she  sits  down  on  the  settee.)  Sit  down.  (He 
sits  down  and  fingers  his  tie  nervously.)  Dont  fiddle 
with  your  tie,  Stephen:  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  it. 

Stephen.  I  beg  your  pardon.  (He  fiddles  with  his 
watch  chain  instead.) 

Lady  Britomart.  Now  are  you  attending  to  me, 
Stephen  ? 

Stephen.     Of  course,  mother. 

Lady  Britomart.  No :  it's  n  o  t  of  course.  I  want 
something  much  more  than  your  everyday  matter-of- 
course  attention.  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you  very  seri- 
ously, Stephen.     I  wish  you  would  let  that  chain  alone. 

Stephen  (hastily  relinquishing  the  chain).  Have  I 
done  anything  to  annoy  you,  mother.^  If  so,  it  was  quite 
unintentional. 

Lady  Britomart  (astonished).  Nonsense!  (With 
some  remorse.)  My  poor  boy,  did  you  think  I  was 
angry  with  you? 


Act  I  JNIajor  Barbara  203 

Stephen.  What  is  it,  then,  mother  ?  You  are  making 
me  very  uneasy. 

Lady  Britomart  (squaring  herself  at  him  rather  ag- 
gressively). Stephen:  may  I  ask  how  soon  you  intend 
to  realize  that  you  are  a  grown-up  man,  and  that  I  am 
only  a  woman? 

Stephen   (amazed).     Only  a — 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  repeat  my  words,  please:  it 
is  a  most  aggravating  habit.  You  must  learn  to  face 
life  seriously,  Stephen.  I  really  cannot  bear  the  whole 
burden  of  our  family  affairs  any  longer.  You  must 
advise  me:  you  must  assume  the  responsibility. 

Stephen.     I ! 

Lady  Britomart.  Yes,  you,  of  course.  You  were  24 
last  June.  Youve  been  at  Harrow  and  Cambridge. 
Youve  been  to  India  and  Japan.  You  must  know  a  lot 
of  things,  now;  unless  you  have  wasted  your  time  most 
scandalously.     Well,  advise  me. 

Stephen  (much  perplexed).  You  know  I  have  never 
interfered  in  the  household — 

Lady  Britomart.  No:  I  should  think  not.  I  dont 
want  you  to  order  the  dinner. 

Stephen.     I  mean  in  our  family  aifairs. 

Lady  Britomart.  Well,  you  must  interfere  now;  for 
they  are  getting  quite  beyond  me. 

Stephen  (troubled).  I  have  thought  sometimes  that 
perhaps  I  ought;  but  really,  mother,  I  know  so  little 
about  them;  and  what  I  do  know  is  so  painful — it  is 
so  impossible  to  mention  some  things  to  you —  (he  stops, 
ashamed). 

Lady  Britomart.     I  suppose  you  mean  your  father. 

Stephen   (almost  inaudibly).     Yes. 

Lady  Britomart.  My  dear:  we  cant  go  on  all  our 
lives  not  mentioning  him.  Of  course  j'ou  were  quite 
right  not  to  open  the  subject  until  I  asked  you  to;  but 
you  are  old  enough  now  to  be  taken  into  my  confidence, 
and  to  help  me  to  deal  with  him  about  the  girls. 


204  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

Stephen.  But  the  girls  are  all  right.  They  are  en- 
gaged. 

Ladv  Britomart  {complacently).  Yes:  I  have  made 
a  very  good  match  for  Sarah.  Charles  Lomax  will  be 
a  millionaire  at  35.  But  that  is  ten  years  ahead;  and 
in  the  meantime  his  trustees  cannot  imder  the  terms  of 
his  father's  will  allow  him  more  than  ,£800  a  year. 

Stephen.  But  the  will  says  also  that  if  he  increases 
his  income  by  his  own  exertions,  they  may  double  the 
increase. 

Lady  Britomart.  Charles  Lomax's  exertions  are 
much  more  likely  to  decrease  his  income  than  to  increase 
it.  Sarah  will  have  to  find  at  least  another  ,£800  a  year 
for  the  next  ten  years;  and  even  then  they  will  be  as 
poor  as  church  mice.  And  what  about  Barbara?  I 
thought  Barbara  was  going  to  make  the  most  brilliant 
career  of  all  of  you.  And  what  does  she  do.''  Joins  the 
Salvation  Army;  discharges  her  maid;  lives  on  a  poimd 
a  week;  and  walks  in  one  evening  with  a  professor  of 
Greek  whom  she  has  picked  up  in  the  street,  and  who 
pretends  to  be  a  Salvationist,  and  actually  plays  the 
big  drum  for  her  in  public  because  he  has  fallen  head 
over  ears  in  love  with  her. 

Stephen.  I  was  certainly  rather  taken  aback  when 
I  heard  they  were  engaged.  Cusins  is  a  very  nice  fel- 
low, certainly:  nobody  would  ever  guess  that  he  was 
born  in  Australia;  but — 

Lady  Britomart.  Oh,  Adolphus  Cusins  will  make 
a  very  good  husband.  After  all,  nobody  can  say  a  word 
against  Greek:  it  stamps  a  man  at  once  as  an  educated 
gentleman.  And  my  family,  thank  Heaven,  is  not  a 
pig-headed  Tory  one.  We  are  ^Vhigs,  and  believe  in 
liberty.  Let  snobbish  people  say  what  they  please: 
Barbara  shall  marry,  not  the  man  they  like,  but  the 
man  I  like. 

Stephen.  Of  course  I  was  thinking  only  of  his 
income.     However,  he  is  not  likely  to  be  extravagant. 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  205 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  be  too  sure  of  that,  Stephen. 
I  know  your  quiet,  simple,  refined,  poetic  people  like 
Adolphus — quite  content  with  the  best  of  everything! 
They  cost  more  than  your  extravagant  people,  who  are 
always  as  mean  as  they  are  second  rate.  No:  Barbara 
will  need  at  least  £2000  a  year.  You  see  it  means  two 
additional  households.  Besides,  my  dear,  you  must 
marry  soon.  I  dont  approve  of  the  present  fashion  of 
philandering  bachelors  and  late  marriages;  and  I  am 
trying  to  arrange  something  for  you. 

Stephen.  It's  very  good  of  you,  mother;  but  per- 
haps I  had  better  arrange  that  for  myself. 

Lady  Britomart.  Nonsense !  you  are  much  too  young 
to  begin  matchmaking:  you  would  be  taken  in  by  some 
pretty  little  nobody.  Of  course  I  dont  mean  that  you 
are  not  to  be  consulted:  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 
(Stephen  closes  his  lips  and  is  silent.)  Now  dont  sulk, 
Stephen. 

Stephen.  I  am  not  sulking,  mother.  What  has  all 
this  got  to  do  with — with — with  my  father? 

Lady  Britomart.  My  dear  Stephen:  where  is  the 
money  to  come  from?  It  is  easy  enough  for  you  and 
the  other  children  to  live  on  my  income  as  long  as  we 
are  in  the  same  house;  but  I  cant  keep  four  families  in 
four  separate  houses.  You  know  how  poor  my  father 
is:  he  has  barely  seven  thousand  a  year  now;  and  really, 
if  he  were  not  the  Earl  of  Stevenage,  he  would  have  to 
give  up  society.  He  can  do  nothing  for  us.  He  says, 
naturally  enough,  that  it  is  absurd  that  he  should  be 
asked  to  provide  for  the  children  of  a  man  who  is  rolling 
in  money.  You  see,  Stephen,  your  father  must  be  fabu- 
lously wealthy,  because  there  is  always  a  war  going  on 
somewhere. 

Stephen.  You  need  not  remind  me  of  that,  mother. 
I  have  hardly  ever  opened  a  newspaper  in  my  life  with- 
out seeing  our  name  in  it.  The  Undershaft  torpedo! 
The  Undershaft  quick  firers !     The  Undershaft  ten  inch ! 


200  INIajor  Barbara  Act  I 

the  Undershaft  disapj^earing  rampart  gun !  the  Under- 
shaft  submarine!  and  now  the  Undershaft  aerial  battle- 
ship !  At  Harrow  they  called  me  the  Woolwich  Infant. 
At  Cambridge  it  was  the  same.  A  little  brute  at  King's 
who  was  alwaj'S  trying  to  get  up  revivals,  spoilt  my 
Bible — your  first  birthday  present  to  me — by  writing 
under  my  name,  "  Son  and  heir  to  Undershaft  and 
Lazarus,  Death  and  Destruction  Dealers:  address, 
Christendom  and  Judea."  But  that  was  not  so  bad  as 
the  way  I  was  kowtowed  to  everywhere  because  my 
father  was  making  millions  by  selling  cannons. 

Lady  Britomart.  It  is  not  only  the  cannons,  but  the 
war  loans  that  Lazarus  arranges  under  cover  of  giving 
credit  for  the  cannons.  You  know,  Stephen,  it's  per- 
fectly scandalous.  Those  two  men,  Andrew  Undershaft 
and  Lazarus,  positively  have  Europe  under  their  thumbs. 
That  is  why  your  father  is  able  to  behave  as  he  does. 
He  is  above  the  law.  Do  you  think  Bismarck  or  Glad- 
stone or  Disraeli  could  have  openly  defied  every  social 
and  moral  obligation  all  their  lives  as  your  father  has.'' 
They  simply  wouldnt  have  dared.  I  asked  Gladstone  to 
take  it  up.  I  asked  The  Times  to  take  it  up.  I  asked 
the  Lord  Chamberlain  to  take  it  up.  But  it  was  just 
like  asking  them  to  declare  war  on  the  Sultan.  They 
wouldnt.  They  said  they  couldnt  touch  him.  I  be- 
lieve they  were  afraid. 

Stephen,  ^^^lat  could  they  do?  He  does  not  actu- 
ally break  the  law. 

Lady  Britomart.  Not  break  the  law!  He  is  always 
breaking  the  law.  He  broke  the  law  when  he  was  born: 
his  parents  were  not  married. 

Stephen.     Mother!     Is  that  true.-* 

Lady  Britomart.  Of  course  it's  true:  that  was  why 
we  separated. 

Stephen.     He  married  without  letting  you  know  this  I 

Lady  Britomart  (rather  taken  aback  by  this  infer- 
ence).    Oh  no.     To  do  Andrew  justice,  that  was  not  the 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  207 

sort  of  tiling  he  did.  Besides,  you  know  the  Undershaft 
motto:  Unashamed.     Everybody  knew. 

Stephen.     But  you  said  that  was  why  you  separated. 

Lady  Britomart.  Yes,  because  he  was  not  content 
with  being  a  foundling  himself:  he  wanted  to  disinherit 
you  for  another  foundling.  That  was  what  I  couldnt 
stand, 

Stephen  (ashamed).     Do  you  mean  for — for — for — 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  stammer,  Stephen.  Speak 
distinctly. 

Stephen.  But  this  so  frightful  to  me,  mother.  To 
have  to  speak  to  you  about  such  things ! 

Lady  Britomart.  It's  not  pleasant  for  me,  either, 
especially  if  you  are  still  so  childish  that  you  must  make 
it  worse  by  a  display  of  embarrassment.  It  is  only  in  the 
middle  classes,  Stephen,  that  people  get  into  a  state  of 
dumb  helpless  horror  when  they  find  that  there  are 
wicked  people  in  the  world.  In  our  class,  we  have  to 
decide  what  is  to  be  done  with  wicked  people;  and  noth- 
ing should  disturb  our  self-possession.  Now  ask  your 
question  properly. 

Stephen.  Mother:  you  have  no  consideration  for  me. 
For  Heaven's  sake  either  treat  me  as  a  child,  as  you 
always  do,  and  tell  me  nothing  at  all;  or  tell  me  every- 
thing and  let  me  take  it  as  best  I  can. 

Lady  Britomart.  Treat  you  as  a  child!  What  do 
you  mean?  It  is  most  unkind  and  ungrateful  of  you 
to  say  such  a  thing.  You  know  I  have  never  treated  any 
of  you  as  children.  I  have  always  made  you  my  com- 
panions and  friends,  and  allowed  you  perfect  freedom 
to  do  and  say  whatever  you  liked,  so  long  as  you  liked 
what  I  could  approve  of. 

Stephen  (desperately).  I  daresay  we  have  been  the 
very  imperfect  children  of  a  very  perfect  mother;  but 
I  do  beg  you  to  let  me  alone  for  once,  and  tell  me  about 
this  horrible  business  of  my  father  wanting  to  set  me 
aside  for  another  son. 


208  Major  Barbara  Acr  I 

Ladt  Bmtomart  {aauized).  Another  son!  I  never 
SAid  anTthing  of  the  kind.  I  nerer  dreamt  of  such  a 
thing.     This  is  vfaat  comes  of  interrupting  me. 

Stephkx.     Bnt  too  said — 

Ladt  Bsttomakt  {emttimg  him  short}.  Xow  be  a 
good  boT.  Ste]dien,  and  listen  to  me  patientlr.  The 
Undershafts  are  descended  from  a  fomidling  in  the 
parish  of  St.  Andrew  Underdiaft  in  the  city.  That  was 
long  ago,  in  the  reign  of  James  the  FLrsL  WelL  this 
foundling  was  adopted  bv  an  armorer  and  gun-maker. 
In  the  course  of  time  the  foundling  sueceeded  to  the 
business;  and  from  some  notion  of  gutiUidej  or  some 
TOW  or  somediingy  he  aSopbed  another  foundling,  and 
left  die  business  to  him.     And  that  foundling  did  the 

been  left  to  an  adapted  foundling  named  Andrew  Un- 
drrAafL 

SxsFHKX.     But  did  ther  nerer  many?     Were  tiiere 


Ladx  Brttomabt.  Oh  res:  thev  married  just  as  toot 
father  did;  and  they  were  rich  «'w«»gh  to  bur  land  for 
their  own  duldren  and  leave  tihem  wdD  provided  for. 
Bnt  tiiej  ahrajs  adopted  and  trained  some  foundling  to 
suerccd  tiiem  in  the  business;  and  of  euume  titer  alwars 
qnarrdled  with  their  wires  furionslT  over  iL  Tour 
father  was  adapted  in  tiiat  way;  ai^  he  pretends  to 
eonsider  hiimaplf  bound  to  keep  up  the  tradition  and 
adi^  samchodj  to  leare  the  business  to.  Of  eonne  I 
was  not  going  to  stand  that.  Theie  ma j  hare  been  some 
reason  for  it  what  the  Undezdbafti  could  only  marry 
nuuMJt  in  their  own  dbss,  iriioae  sons  vere  not  fit  to 
guitxu  great  fsiatf<.  But  Aere  could  be  no  ♦•iruiw*  for 
passing  over  my  son. 

SiKrHKX  {dtMomaijf).  I  aai  afraid  I  should  make  a 
poor  hand  of  managing  a  rawnnw  foundry. 

Ladt  !&utomakt.  Xonsonse!  joo  could  easilT  get  a 
and  pay  him  a  salary. 


Act  I  Major  Barbaia  -09 

Stephen'.  My  father  evidently  had  no  great  opinion 
of  my  capacity. 

Lady  Britomart.  Stuff,  child  I  you  were  only  a  baby: 
it  had  nothing  to  do  with  your  capacity.  Andrew  did 
it  on  principle,  just  as  he  did, e^ierv perverse  ;vud  wicked 
thing  on  ^principle.  .  When  my  father  remonstrated. 
^Andrew  actually  told  him  to  his  face  that  history  tells 
us  of  only  two  successfid  institutions:  one  the  Under- 
shaft  firm,  and  the  other  the  Romiiu  Empire  under  the 
Antonines.  That  was  because  the  -\ntonine  emperors  all 
adopted  their  successors.  Such  rubbish  I  The  Steven- 
ages  are  as  good  as  the  Antonines,  I  hope;  and  you  are 
a  Stevenage.  But  that  was  -\ndrew  all  over.  There 
you  have  the  man  I  Always  clever  and  unanswerable 
when  he  was  defending  nonsense  and^  wickedness:  al- 
ways awkward  and  sullen  when  he  had  to  behave  sensibly 
and  decently  I 

Stephen*.  Then  it  was  on  my  accoimt  that  your  home 
life  was  broken  up.  mother.     I  am  sorry. 

Lady  Britomart.  Well.  dear,  there  were  other  dif- 
ferences. I  really  camiot  bear  an  immoral  man.  I  am 
not  a  Pharisee.  I  hope;  and  I  should  not  have  minded 
his  merely  doing  wrong  things :  we  are  none  of  us 
perfect.  But  your  father  didnt  exactly  d  o  wrong 
things:  he  said  them  and  thought  them:  that  was  what 
was  so  dreadful.  He  really  had  a  sort  of  religion  of 
wrongness.  Just  as  one  doesnt  mind  men  practising 
immorality  so  long  as  tliey  own  that  they  are  in  the 
Mrong  by  preaching  morality;  so  I  couldnt  forgive  An- 
drew for  preaching  immorality  while  he  practised  mo- 
rality. You  would  all  have  grown  up  without  prin- 
ciples, without  any  knowledge  of  right  ;uid  wrong,  if 
he  had  been  in  the  house.  You  know,  my  dear,  your 
father  was  a  very  attractive  man  in  some  ways.  Chil- 
dren did  not  dislike  him;  and  he  tix)k  advjuitage  of  it 
to  put  tlie  wickedest  ideas  into  their  heads,  and  make 
them  quite  unmanageable.     I  did  not  dislike  him  myself: 


210  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

very  "far  from  it;  but  nothing  can  bridge  over  moral 
disagreement. 

Stephen.  All  this  simply  bewilders  me,  mother. 
People  may  differ  about  matters  of  opinion,  or  even 
about  religion;  but  how  can  they  differ  about  right  and 
wrong.''  Right  is  right;  and  wrong  is  wrong;  and  if 
a  man  cannot  distinguish  them  properly,  he  is  either  a 
fool  or  a  rascal:  thats  all. 

Lady  Britomart  (touched).  Thats  my  own  boy  (she 
pats  his  cheek)  !  Your  father  never  could  answer  that: 
he  used  to  laugh  and  get  out  of  it  under  cover  of  some 
affectionate  nonsense.  And  now  that  you  imderstand  the 
situation,-  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ? 

Stephen.     Well,  what  can  you  do  ? 

Lady  Britomart.     I  must  get  the  money  somehow. 

Stephen.  We  cannot  take  money  from  him.  I  had 
rather  go  and  live  in  some  cheap  place  like  Bedford 
Square  or  even  Hampstead  than  take  a  farthing  of  his 
money. 

Lady  Britomart.  But  after  all,  Stepheiij  our  present 
income  comes  from  Andrew. 

Stephen  (shocked).     I  never  knew  that. 

Lady  Britomart.  Well,  you  surely  didnt  suppose 
your  grandfather  had  anything  to  give  me.  The  Steven- 
ages  could  not  do  everj^thing  for  you.  We  gave  you 
social  position.  Andrew  had  to  contribute  some- 
thing.    He  had  a  very  good  bargain,  I  think. 

Stephen  (bitterly).  We  are  utterly  dependent  on 
him  and  his  cannons,  then.'' 

Lady  Britomart.  Certainly  not:  the  money  is  set- 
tled. But  he  provided  it.  So  you  see  it  is  not  a  question 
of  taking  money  from  him  or  not:  it  is  simply  a  question 
of  how  much.     I  dont  want  any  more  for  myself. 

Stephen.     Nor  do  I. 

Lady  Britomart.  But  Sarah  does ;  and  Barbara  does. 
That  is,  Charles  Lomax  and  Adolphus  Cusins  will  cost 
them  more.     So  I  must  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket  and 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  211 

ask  for  it,  I  suppose.  That  is  your  advice,  Stephen,  is 
it  not? 

Stephen.     No. 

Lady  Britomart  (sharply).     Stephen! 

Stephen.     Of  course  if  you  are  determined — 

Lady  Britomart.  I  am  not  determined:  I  ask  your 
advice;  and  I  am  waiting  for  it.  I  will  not  have  all  the 
responsibility  thrown  on  my  shoulders. 

Stephen  (obstinately).  I  would  die  sooner  than  ask 
him  for  another  penny.      " 

Lady  Britomart  (resignedly).  You  mean  that  I 
must  ask  him.  Very  well,  Stephen:  it  shall  be  as  you 
wish.  You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  your  grandfather 
concurs.  But  he  thinks  I  ought  to  ask  Andrew  to  come 
here  and  see  the  girls.  After  all,  he  must  have  some 
natural  affection  for  them. 

Stephen.     Ask  him  here ! ! ! 

Lady  Britomart.  Do  not  repeat  my  words, 
Stephen.     Where  else  can  I  ask  him? 

Stephen.     I  never  expected  you  to  ask  him  at  all. 

Lady  Britomart.  Now  dont  tease,  Stephen.  Come ! 
you  see  that  it  is  necessary  that  he  should  pay  us  a  visit, 
dont  you? 

Stephen  (reluctantly).  I  suppose  so,  if  the  girls 
cannot  do  without  his  money. 

Lady  Britomart.  Thank  you,  Stephen:  I  knew  you 
would  give  me  the  right  advice  when  it  was  properly 
explained  to  you.  I  have  asked  your  father  to  come 
this  evening.  (Stephen  bounds  from  his  seat.)  Dont 
jump,  Stephen:  it  fidgets  me. 

Stephen  (in  utter  consternation).  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  my  father  is  coming  here  to-night — that  he 
may  be  here  at  any  moment? 

Lady  Britomart  (looking  at  her  watch).  I  said  nine. 
(lie  gasps.  She  rises.)  Ring  the  bell,  please.  (Stephen 
goes  to  the  smaller  writing  table;  presses  a  button  on 
it;  and  sits  at  it  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his 


212  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

head  in  his  hands,  outwitted  and  overwhelmed.)  It  is 
ten  minutes  t©  nine  yet;  and  I  have  to  prepare  the  girls. 
I  asked  Charles  Lomax  and  Adolphus  to  dinner  on  pur- 
pose that  they  might  be  here.  Andrew  had  better  see 
them  in  case  he  should  cherish  any  delusions  as  to  their 
being  capable  of  supporting  their  wives.  (The  butler 
enters:  Lady  Britomart  goes  behind  the  settee  to  speak 
to  him.)  Morrison:  go  up  to  the  drawingroom  and  tell 
everybody  to  come  down  here  at  once.  {Morrison  with- 
draws. Lady  Britomart  turns  to  Stephen.)  Now  re- 
member^ Stephen:  I  shall  need  all  your  countenance  and 
authority.  (He  rises  and  tries  to  recover  some  vestige 
of  these  attributes.)  Give  me  a  chair,  dear.  (He  pushes 
a  chair  forward  from  the  wall  to  where  she  stands,  near 
the  smaller  writing  table.  She  sits  down;  and  he  goes 
to  the  arm-chair,  into  which  he  throws  himself.)  I  dont 
know  how  Barbara  will  take  it.  Ever  since  they  made 
her  a  major  in  the  Salvation  Army  she  has  developed  a 
propensity  to  have  her  own  way  and  order  people  about 
which  quite  cows  me  sometimes.  It's  not  ladylike:  I'm 
sure  I  dont  know  where  she  picked  it  up.  Anyhow,  Bar- 
bara shant  bully  me;  but  still  it's  just  as  well  that 
3'our  father  should  be  here  before  she  has  time  to  refuse 
to  meet  him  or  make  a  fuss.  Dont  look  nervous,  Stephen ; 
it  will  only  encourage  Barbara  to  make  difficulties.  I 
am  nervous  enough,  goodness  knows;  but  I  dont  shew  it. 
Sarah  and  Barbara  come  in  with  their  respective  young 
men,  Charles  Lomax  and  Adolphus  Cusins.  Sarah  is 
slender,  bored,  and  mundane.  Barbara  is  robuster,  jol- 
lier, much  more  energetic.  Sarah  is  fashionably  dressed: 
Barbara  is  in  Salvation  Army  uniform.  Lomax,  a  young 
man  about  toivn,  is  like  many  other  young  men  about 
town.  He  is  afflicted  with  a  frivolous  sense  of  humor 
which  plunges  him  at  the  most  inopportune  moments 
into  paroxysms  of  imperfectly  suppressed  laughter. 
Cusins  is  a  spectacled  student,  slight,  thin  haired,  and 
sweet   voiced,  with   a  more   complex   form   of  Lomax's 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  213 

complaint.  His  sense  of  humor  is  intellectual  and  subtle, 
and  is  complicated  by  an  appalling  temper.  The  life- 
long struggle  of  a  benevolent  temperament  and  a  high 
conscience  against  impidses  of  inhuman  ridicide  and 
■fierce  impatience  has  set  up  a  chronic  strain  which  has 
visibly  wrecked  his  constitution.  He  is  a  most  implacable, 
determined,  tenacious,  intolerant  person  who  by  mere 
force  of  character  presents  himself  as — and  indeed  actu- 
ally is — considerate,  gentle,  explanatory,  even  mild  and 
apologetic,  capable  possibly  of  murder,  but  not  of  cru- 
elty or  coarseness.  By  the  operation  of  some  instinct 
which  is  not  merciful  enough  to  blind  him  with  the 
illusions  of  love,  he  is  obstinately  bent  on  marrying  Bar- 
bara. Lomax  likes  Sarah  and  thinks  it  will  be  rather  a 
lark  to  marry  her.  Consequently  he  has  not  attempted 
to  resist  Lady  Britomart's  arrangements  to  that  end. 

All  four  look  as  if  they  had  been  having  a  good  deal 
of  fun  in  the  drawingroom.  The  girls  enter  first,  leav- 
ing the  swains  outside.  Sarah  comes  to  the  settee.  Bar- 
bara comes  in  after  her  and  stops  at  the  door. 

Barbara,     Are  Cholly  and  Dolly  to  come  in? 

Lady  Britomart  (forcibly).  Barbara:  I  will  not 
have  Charles  called  Cholly:  the  vulgarity  of  it  positively 
makes  me  ill. 

Barbara.  It's  all  right,  mother.  Cholly  is  quite  cor- 
rect nowadays.     Are  they  to  come  in? 

Lady  Britomart.  Yesj  if  they  will  behave  them- 
selves. 

Barbara  (through  the  door).  Come  in,  Dolly,  and 
behave  yourself. 

Barbara  comes  to  her  mother's  writing  table.  Cusins 
enters  smiling,  and  wanders  towards  Lady  Britomart. 

Sarah  (calling).  Come  in,  Cholly.  (Lomax  enters, 
controlling  his  features  very  imperfectly,  and  places 
himself  vaguely  between  Sarah  and  Barbara.) 

Lady  Britomart  (peremptorily).  Sit  down,  all  of 
you.     (They  sit.     Cusins  crosses  to  the  window  and  seats 


214  ^lajor  Barbara  Act  I 

himself  there.  Lomax  takes  a  chair.  Barbara  sits  at 
the  writing  table  and  Sarah  on  the  settee.)  I  dont  in 
the  least  know  what  you  are  laughing  at,  Adolphus.  I 
am  surprised  at  you,  though  I  expected  nothing  better 
from  Charles  Lomax. 

CusiNs  (in  a  remarkably  gentle  voice).  Barbara  has 
been  trying  to  teach  me  the  West  Ham  Salvation  March. 

Lady  Britomart.  I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at  in  that; 
nor  should  you  if  you  are  really  converted. 

CusiNs  {sweetly).  You  were  not  present.  It  was 
really  fimny,  I  believe. 

Lomax,     Ripping. 

Lady  Britomart.  Be  quiet,  Charles.  Now  listen  to 
me,  children.  Your  father  is  coming  here  this  evening. 
(General  stupefaction.) 

Lomax  (remonstrating).     Oh  I  say! 

Lady  Britomart.  You  are  not  called  on  to  say  any- 
thing, Charles. 

Sarah.     Are  you  serious,  mother? 

Lady  Britomart.  Of  course  I  am  serious.  It  is  on 
your  account,  Sarah,  and  also  on  Charles's.  (Silence. 
Charles  looks  painfully  unworthy.)  I  hope  you  are  not 
going  to  object,  Barbara. 

Barbara.  I !  why  should  I  ?  My  father  has  a  soul 
to  be  saved  like  anybody  else.  Hes  quite  welcome  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned. 

Lomax  (still  remonstrant).  But  really,  dont  you 
know!     Oh  I  say! 

Lady  Britomart  (frigidly).  What  do  you  wish  to 
convey,  Charles.'' 

Lomax.    Well,  you  must  admit  that  this  is  a  bit  thick. 

Lady  Britomart  (turning  with  ominous  suavity  to 
Cusins).  Adolphus:  you  are  a  professor  of  Greek.  Can 
you  translate  Charles  Lomax's  remarks  into  reputable 
English  for  us? 

Cusins  (cautiously).  If  I  may  say  so.  Lady  Brit,  I 
think  Charles  has  rather  happily  expressed  what  we  all 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  215 

feel.  Homer,  speaking  of  Autolycus,  uses  the  same 
phrase.  irvKivbv  86/x.ov  iXOeiv  means  a  bit  thick. 

LoMAX  {handsomely).  Not  that  I  mind,  you  know, 
if  Sarah  dont. 

Lady  Britomart  (cnishingly).  Thank  you.  Have 
I  y  o  u  r  permission,  Adolphus,  to  invite  my  own  hus- 
band to  my  own  house? 

CusiNs  (gallantly).  You  have  my  imhesitating  sup- 
port in  everything  you  do. 

Lady  Britomart.     Sarah:  have  you  nothing  to  say? 

Sarah.  Do  you  mean  that  he  is  coming  regularly  to 
live  here? 

Lady  Britomart.  Certainly  not.  The  spare  room 
is  ready  for  him  if  he  likes  to  stay  for  a  day  or  two 
and  see  a  little  more  of  you;  but  there  are  limits. 

Sarah.    Well,  he  cant  eat  us,  I  suppose.    /  dont  mind. 

Lomax  (chuckling).  I  wonder  how  the  old  man  will 
take  it. 

Lady  Britomart.  Much  as  the  old  woman  will,  no 
doubt,  Charles. 

Lomax  (abashed).     I  didnt  mean — at  least — 

Lady  Britomart.  You  didnt  think,  Charles.  You 
never  do;  and  the  result  is,  you  never  mean  anything. 
And  now  please  attend  to  me,  children.  Your  father 
will  be  quite  a  stranger  to  us. 

Lomax.  I  suppose  he  hasnt  seen  Sarah  since  she  was 
a  little  kid. 

Lady  Britomart.  Not  since  she  was  a  little  kid, 
Charles,  as  you  express  it  with  that  elegance  of  diction 
and  refinement  of  thought  that  seem  never  to  desert  you. 
Accordingly — er —  (impatiently)  Now  I  have  forgot- 
ten what  I  was  going  to  say.  That  comes  of  your  pro- 
voking me  to  be  sarcastic,  Charles.  Adolphus:  will  you 
kindly  tell  me  where  I  was. 

CusiNs  (sweetly).  You  were  saying  that  as  Mr. 
Undershaft  has  not  seen  his  children  since  they  were 
babies,  he  will  form  his  opinion  of  the  way  you  have 


216  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

brought  them  up  from  their  behavior  to-night,  and  that 
therefore  you  wish  us  all  to  be  particularly  careful  to 
conduct  ourselves  well,  especially  Charles. 

LoMAX.     Look  here:  Lady  Brit  didnt  say  that. 

Lady  Britomart  (vehemently).  I  did,  Charles. 
Adolphus's  recollection  is  perfectly  correct.  It  is  most 
important  th.at  you  should  be  good;  and  I  do  beg  you 
for  once  not  to  pair  off  into  opposite  corners  and  giggle 
and  whisper  while  I  am  speaking  to  your  father. 

Barbara.     All  right,  mother.     We'll  do  you  credit. 

Lady  Britomart.  Remember,  Charles,  that  Sarah 
will  want  to  feel  proud  of  you  instead  of  ashamed  of 
you. 

LoMAX.  Oh  I  say !  theres  nothing  to  be  exactly  proud 
of,  dont  you  know. 

Lady  Britomart.     Well,  try  and  look  as  if  there  was. 

Morrison,  pale  and  dismayed,  breaks  into  the  room  in 
unconcealed  disorder. 

Morrison.     Might  I  speak  a  word  to  you,  my  lady? 

Lady  Britomart.     Nonsense!     Shew  him  up. 

Morrison.     Yes,  my  lady.     {He  goes.) 

LoMAX.     Does  Morrison  know  who  it  is? 

Lady  Britomart.  Of  course.  Morrison  has  always 
been  with  us. 

LoMAx.  It  must  be  a  regular  corker  for  him,  dont 
you  know. 

Lady  Britomart.  Is  this  a  moment  to  get  on  my 
nerves,  Charles,  with  your  outrageous  expressions? 

Lomax.  But  this  is  something  out  of  the  ordinary, 
really — 

Morrison  (at  the  door).  The — er — Mr.  Undershaft. 
{He  retreats  in  confusion.) 

Andrerv  Undershaft  comes  in.  All  rise.  Lady  Brito- 
mart meets  him  in  the  middle  of  the  room  behind  the 
settee. 

Andrew  is,  on  the  surface,  a  stoutish,  easygoing  elderly 
man,  rvith  kindly  patient  manners,  and  an  engaging  sim- 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  217 

plicity  of  character.  But  he  has  a  rvatchful,  deliberate, 
waiting,  listening  face,  and  formidable  reserves  of 
power,  both  bodily  and  mental,  in  his  capacious  chest 
and  long  head.  His  gentleness  is  partly  that  of  a  strong 
man  who  has  learnt  by  experience  that  his  natural 
grip  hurts  ordinary  people  unless  he  handles  them  very 
carefully,  and  partly  the  mellowness  of  age  and  success. 
He  is  also  a  little  shy  in  his  present  very  delicate  sit- 
uation. 

Lady  Britomart.     Good  evening,  Andrew. 

Undershaft.     How  d'ye  do,  my  dear. 

Lady  Britomart.     You  look  a  good  deal  older. 

Undershaft  (apologetically).  lam  somewhat  older. 
(With  a  touch  of  courtship.)  Time  has  stood  still  with 
you. 

Lady  Britomart  (promptly).  Rubbish!  This  is 
your  family. 

Undershaft  (surprised).  Is  it  so  large?  I  am  sorry 
to  say  my  memory  is  failing  very  badly  in  some  things. 
(He  offers  his  hand  with  paternal  kindness  to  Lomax.) 

LoMAX  (jerkily  shaking  his  hand).     Ahdedoo. 

Undershaft.  I  can  see  you  are  my  eldest.  I  am 
very  glad  to  meet  you  again,  my  boy. 

Lomax  (remonstrating) .  No  but  look  here  dont  you 
know —     (Overcome.)      Oh  I  say! 

Lady  Britomart  (recovering  from,  momentary  speech- 
lessness). Andrew:  do  you  mean  \o  say  that  you  dont 
remember  how  many  children  you  have? 

Undershaft.  Well,  I  am  afraid  I — .  They  have 
grown  so  much — er.  Am  I  making  any  ridiculous  mis- 
take? I  may  as  well  confess:  I  recollect  only  one  son. 
But  so  many  things  have  happened  since,  of  course — 
er — 

Lady  Britomart  (decisively).  Andrew:  you  are 
talking  nonsense.     Of  course  you  have  only  one  son. 

Undershaft.  Perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
introduce  me,  my  dear. 


218  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

Lady  Britomart.  That  is  Charles  Lomax,  who  is  en- 
gaged to  Sarah. 

Undershaft.     My  dear  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

LoMAx.     Notatall.     Delighted,  I  assure  you. 

Lady  Britomart.     This  is  Stephen. 

Undershaft  (bowing).  Happy  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, Mr.  Stephen.  Then  (going  to  Cusins)  you 
must  be  my  son.  (Taking  Cusins'  hands  in  his.)  How 
are  you,  my  young  friend.''  (To  Lady  Britomart.)  He 
is  very  like  you,  my  love. 

Cusins.  You  flatter  me,  Mr.  Undershaft.  My  name 
is  Cusins:  engaged  to  Barbara.  (Very  explicitly.)  That 
is  Major  Barbara  Undershaft,  of  the  Salvation  Army. 
That  is  Sarah,  your  second  daughter.  This  is  Stephen 
Undershaft,  your  son. 

Undershaft.     My  dear  Stephen,  I  b  e  g  your  pardon. 

Stephen.     Not  at  all. 

Undershaft.  Mr.  Cusins:  I  am  much  indebted  to 
you  for  explaining  so  precisely.  (Turning  to  Sarah.) 
Barbara,  my  dear — 

Sarah  (prompting  him).     Sarah. 

Undershaft.  Sarah,  of  course.  (They  shake  hands. 
He  goes  over  to  Barbara.)  Barbara — I  am  right  this 
time,  I  hope. 

Barbara.     Q^ite  right.      (They  shake  hands.) 

Lady  Britomai^t  (resuming  command).  Sit  down, 
all  of  you.  Sit  down,  Andrew.  (She  comes  forward 
and  sits  on  the  settee.  Cusins  also  brings  his  chair  for- 
ward on  her  left.  Barbara  and  Stephen  resume  their 
seats.  Lomax  gives  his  chair  to  Sarah  and  goes  for 
another.) 

Undershaft.     Thank  you,  my  love. 

LoMAX  (conversationally,  as  he  brings  a  chair  forward 

between  the  writing  table  and  the  settee,  and  offers  it  to 

Undershaft).     Takes  you  some  time  to  find  out  exactly 

where  you  are,  dont  it? 

'  Undershaft  (accepting  the  chair).     That  is  not  what 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  219 

embarrasses  me,  Mr.  Lomax.  My  difficulty  is  that  if  I 
play  the  part  of  a  father,  I  shall  produce  the  effect  of 
an  intrusive  stranger;  and  if  I  play  the  part  of  a  dis- 
creet stranger,  I  may  appear  a  callous  father. 

Lady  Britomart.  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  play 
any  part  at  all,  Andrew.  You  had  much  better  be  sin- 
cere and  natural. 

Undershaft  {submissively^  Yes,  my  dear:  I  dare- 
say that  will  be  best.  (Making  himself  comfortable.) 
Well,  here  I  am.     Now  what  can  I  do  for  you  all.'' 

Lady  Britomart.  You  need  not  do  anything,  An- 
drew. You  are  one  of  the  family.  You  can  sit  with 
us  and  enjoy  yourself. 

Lomax's  too  long  suppressed  mirth  explodes  in  ago- 
nised neighings. 

Lady  Britomart  {outraged).  Charles  Lomax:  if  you 
can  behave  yourself,  behave  yourself.  If  not,  leave  the 
room. 

Lomax.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  Lady  Brit;  but  really, 
you  know,  upon  my  soul !  {He  sits  on  the  settee  be- 
tween Lady  Britomart  and  Undershaft,  quite  overcome.) 

Barbara.  Why  dont  you  laugh  if  you  want  to, 
Cholly?     It's  good  for  your  inside. 

Lady  Britomart.  Barbara:  you  have  had  the  educa- 
tion of  a  lady.  Please  let  your  father  see  that;  and 
dont  talk  like  a  street  girl. 

Undershaft.  Never  mind  me,  my  dear.  As  you 
know,  I  am  not  a  gentleman ;  and  I  was  never  educated. 

Lomax  {encouragingly) .  Nobody 'd  know  it,  I  assure 
you.     You  look  all  right,  you  know. 

CusiNS.  Let  me  advise  you  to  study  Greek,  Mr.  Un- 
dershaft. Jjrreek  scholars  are  privileged  meu.  Few  of 
them  know  Greek;  and  none  of  them  know  anything 
else;  but  their  position  is  unchallengeable.  Other  lan- 
guages are  the  qualifications  of  waiters  and  commercial 
travellers:  Greek  is  to  a  man  of  position  what  the  hall- 
mark is  to  silver. 


220  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

Barbara.  Dolly:  dont  be  insincere.  Cholly:  fetch 
your  concertina  and  play  something  for  us. 

LoMAX  {doubtfully  to  Under  shaft).  Perhaps  that 
sort  of  thing  isnt  in  your  line,  eh.'' 

Undershaft.     I  am  particularly  fond  of  music. 

LoMAx  {delighted).  Are  you.^  Then  I'll  get  it.  {He 
goes  upstairs  for  the  instruvient.) 

Undershaft.      Do  you  play,  Barbara? 

Barbara.  Only  the  tambourine.  But  Cholly's  teach- 
ing me  the  concertina. 

Undershaft.  Is  Cholly  also  a  member  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army? 

Barbara.  No:  he  says  it's  bad  form  to  be  a  dis- 
senter. But  I  dont  despair  of  Cholly.  I  made  him 
come  yesterday  to  a  meeting  at  the  dock  gates,  and  took 
the  collection  in  his  hat. 

Lady  Britomart.  It  is  not  my  doing,  Andrew.  Bar- 
bara is  old  enough  to  take  her  own  way.  She  has  no 
father  to  advise  her. 

Barbara.  Oh  yes  she  has.  There  are  no  orphans  in 
the  Salvation  Army. 

Undershaft.  Your  father  there  has  a  great  many 
children  and  plenty  of  experience,  eh? 

Barbara  {looking  at  him  with  quick  interest  and  nod- 
ding). Just  so.  How  did  you  come  to  imderstand  that? 
{Lomax  is  heard  at  the  door  trying  the  concertina.) 

Lady  Britomart.  Come  in,  Charles.  Play  us  some- 
thing at  once. 

Lomax.  Righto !  {He  sits  down  in  his  former  place, 
and  preludes.) 

Undershaft.  One  moment,  Mr.  Lomax.  I  am  rather 
interested  in  the  Salvation  Army.  Its  motto  might  be 
my  own:  Blood  and  Fire. 

Lomax  {shocked).  But  not  your  sort  of  blood  and 
fire,  you  know. 

Undershaft.  My  sort  of  blood  cleanses:  my  sort  of 
fire  purifies. 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  221 

Barbara.  So  do  ours.  Come  down  to-morrow  to 
my  shelter — ^the  West  Ham  shelter — and  see  what  we're 
doing.  "We're  going  to  march  to  a  great  meeting  in  the 
Assembly  Hall  at  Mile  End.  Come  and  see  the  shelter 
and  then  march  with  us:  it  will  do  you  a  lot  of  good. 
Can  you  play  anything.'' 

Undershaft.  In  my  youth  I  earned  pennies^  and 
even  shillings  occasionally,  in  the  streets  and  in  public 
house  parlors  by  my  natural  talent  for  stepdancing. 
Later  on,  I  became  a  member  of  the  Undershaft  orches- 
tral society,  and  performed  passably  on  the  tenor  trom- 
bone. 

LoMAX  (scandalized).     Oh_I_^say! 

Barbara.  Many  a  sinner  has  played  himself  into 
heaven  on  the  trombone,  thanks  to  the  Army. 

LoMAX  (to  Barbara,  still  rather  shocked).  Yes;  but 
what  about  the  cannon  business,  dont  you  know?  (To 
Undershaft.)  Getting  into  heaven  is  not  exactly  in 
your  line,  is  it.^ 

Lady  Britomart.     Charles  ! ! ! 

LoMAX.  Well;  but  it  stands  to  reason,  dont  it?  The 
cannon  business  may  be  necessary  anci  nil  that:  '.ve  cant 
get  on  witiiout  cannons;  but  it  isn'c  ri^lit,  vm  knoAv.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  wny  bo  a  certain  amount  of  to«h 
about  the  Salvation  Arii.y— [  belong  to  the  l-^slablished 
Church  myself — but  «-till  yn^i  cor*  deny  that  it's  re- 
ligion; and  you  cant  go  against  religion,  can  yoii?  At 
least  unless  youre  downright  immoral,  dont  you 
know. 

Undershaft.  You  hardly  appreciate  my  position, 
Mr.  Lomax — 

LoMAx  (hastily).  I'm  not  saying  anything  against 
you  personally,  you  know. 

Undershaft.  Quite  so,  quite  so.  But  consider  for  a 
moment.  Here  I  am,  a  manufacturer  of  mutilation  and 
murder.  I  find  myself  in  a  specially  amiable  humor 
just  now  because,  this  morning,  down  at  the  foundry. 


222  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

we  blew  twenty-seven  dummy  soldiers  into  fragments 
with  a  gun  which  formerly  destroyed  only  thirteen. 

LoMAX  {leniently).  Well,  the  more  destructive  war 
becomes,  the  sooner  it  will  be  abolished,  eh? 

Undershaft,  Not  at  all.  The  more  destructive  war 
becomes  the  more  fascinating  we  find  it.  No,  Mr.  Lo- 
max:  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  making  the  usual  excuse 
for  my  trade;  but  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  I  am  not 
one  of  those  men  who  keep  their  morals  and  their  busi- 
ness in  watertight  compartments.  All  the  spare  money 
my  trade  rivals  spend  on  hospitals,  cathedrals  and  other 
receptacles  for  conscience  money,  I  devote  to  experi- 
ments and  researches  in  improved  methods  of  destroying 
life  and  property.  I  have  always  done  so;  and  I  always 
shall.  Therefore  your  Christmas  card  moralities  of 
peace  on  earth  and  goodwill  among  men  are  of  no  use 
to  me.  Your  Christianity,  which  enjoins  you  to  resist 
not  evil,  and  to  turn  the  other  cheek,  would  make  me  a 
bankrupt.  M  y  morality — m  y  religion — must  have  a 
place  for  cannons  and  torpedoes  in  it. 

Stephen  {coldly — almost  sidlenly).  You  speak  as  if 
there  were  half  a  dozen  moralities  and  religions  to  choose 
from,  instead  of  one  true  morality  and  one  true  religion. 

Undershaft.  For  me  there  is  only  one  true  mo- 
rality; but  it  might  not  fit  you,  as  you  do  not  manu- 
facture aerial  battleships.  There  is  only  one  true 
morality  for  every  man ;  but  every  man  has  not  the  same 
true  morality. 

LoMAx  {overtaxed).  Would  you  mind  saying  that 
again?     I  didnt  quite  follow  it. 

CusiNs.  It's  quite  simple.  As  Euripides  says,  one 
man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison  morally  as  well  as 
physically. 

Undershaft.     Precisely. 

LoMAx.     Oh,  that.    Yes,  yes,  yes.     True.     True. 

Stephen.  In  other  words,  some  men  are  honest  and 
some  are  scoundrels. 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  223 

Barbara.     Bosh.     There  are  no  scoundrels. 

Undershaft.     Indeed.''     Are  there  any  good  men.'' 

Barbara.  No.  Not  one.  There  are  neither  good 
men  nor  scoundrels:  there  are  just  children  of  one 
Tather;  and  the  sooner  they  stop  calling  one  another 
names  the  better.  You  neednt  talk  to  me:  I  know  them. 
Ive  had  scores  of  them  through  my  hands:  scoimdrels, 
criminals,  infidels,  philanthropists,  missionaries,  county 
councillors,  all  sorts.  Theyre  all  just  the  same  sort  of 
sinner ;  and  theres  the  same  salvation  ready  for  them  all. 

Undershaft.  May  I  ask  have  you  ever  saved  a  maker 
of  cannons.'' 

Barbara.     No.     Will  you  let  me  try.? 

Undershaft.  Well,  I  will  make  a  bargain  with  you. 
If  I  go  to  see  you  to-morrow  in  your  Salvation  Shelter, 
will  you  come  the  day  after  to  see  me  in  my  cannon 
works .'' 

Barbara.  Take  care.  It  may  end  in  your  giving  up 
the  cannons  for  the  sake  of  the  Salvation  Army. 

Undershaft.  Are  you  sure  it  will  not  end  in  your 
giving    up    the    Salvation    Army    for    the    sake    of    the 


cannons 


Barbara.     I  will  take  my  chance  of  that. 

Undershaft.  And  I  will  take  my  chance  of  the 
other.  {They  shake  hands  on  it.)  Where  is  your 
shelter  ? 

Barbara.  In  West  Ham-.  At  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Ask  anybody  in  Canning  Town.  Where  are  your 
works  ? 

Undershaft.  In  Perivale  St.  Andrews.  At  the  sign 
of  the  sword.     Ask  anybody  in  Europe. 

LoMAx.     Hadnt  I  better  play  something? 

Barbara.     Yes.     Give  us  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers. 

LoMAX.  Well,  thats  rather  a  strong  order  to  begin 
with,  dont  you  know.  Suppose  I  sing  Thourt  passing 
hence,  my  brother.     It's  much  the  same  tune. 

Barbara.      It's     too     melancholy.      You     get    saved. 


224  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

Cholly;  and  youll  pass  hence,  my  brother,  without  mak- 
ing such  a  fuss  about  it. 

Lady  Britomart.  Really,  Barbara,  you  go  on  as  if 
religion  were  a  pleasant  subject.  Do  have  some  sense  of 
propriety. 

Undershaft.  I  do  not  find  it  an  impleasant  subject, 
my  dear.  It  is  the  only  one  that  capable  people  really 
care  for. 

Lady  Britomart  (looking  at  her  watch).  Well,  if 
you  are  determined  to  have  it,  I  insist  on  having  it 
in  a  proper  and  respectable  way.  Charles:  ring  for 
prayers.  (General  amazement.  Stephen  rises  in  dis- 
may.) 

LoMAX  (rising).     Oh  I  say! 

Undershaft  (rising).     I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going. 

Lady  Britomart.  You  cannot  go  now,  Andrew:  it 
would  be  most  improper.  Sit  down.  What  will  the 
servants  think.'' 

Undershaft.  My  dear:  I  have  conscientious  scru- 
ples. May  I  suggest  a  compromise.^  If  Barbara  will 
conduct  a  little  service  in  the  drawingroom,  with  Mr. 
Lomax  as  organist,  I  will  attend  it  willingly.  I  will 
even  take  part,  if  a  trombone  can  be  procured. 

Lady  Britomart.     Dont  mock,  Andrew. 

Undershaft  (shocked — to  Barbara).  You  dont  think 
I  am  mocking,  my  love,  I  hope. 

Barbara.  No,  of  course  not;  and  it  wouldnt  matter 
if  you  were:  half  the  Army  came  to  their  first  meeting 
for  a  lark.  (Rising.)  Come  along.  Come,  Dolly, 
Come,  Cholly.  (She  goes  out  rvith  Undershaft,  who 
opens  the  door  for  her.     Cusins  rises.) 

Lady  Britomart.  I  will  not  be  disobeyed  by  every- 
body. Adolphus:  sit  down,  Charles:  you  may  go.  You 
are  not  fit  for  prayers:  you  cannot  keep  your  coun- 
tenance. 

Lomax.     Oh  I  say!     (He  goes  out.) 

Lady  Britomart   (continuing).     But  you,  Adolphus, 


Act  I  Major  Barbara  225 

can  behave  yourself  if  you  choose  to.  I  insist  on  your 
staying. 

CusiNs.  My  dear  Lady  Brit:  there  are  things  in  the 
family  prayer  book  that  I  couldnt  bear  to  hear  you  say. 

Lady  Britomart.     What  things,  pray? 

CusiNs.  Well,  you  would  have  to  say  before  all  the 
servants  that  we  have  done  things  we  ought  not  to  have 
done,  and  left  undone  things  we  ought  to  have  done,  and 
that  there  is  no  health  in  us.  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you 
doing  yourself  such  an  injustice,  and  Barbara  such  an 
injustice.  As  for  myself,  I  flatly  deny  it:  I  have  done 
my  best.  I  shouldnt  dare  to  marry  Barbara — I  couldnt 
look  you  in  the  face — if  it  were  true.  So  I  must  go  to 
the  drawingroom. 

Lady  Britomart  (offended).  Well,  go.  (He  starts 
for  the  door.)  And  remember  this,  Adolphus  (he  turns 
to  listen)  :  I  have  a  very  strong  suspicion  that  you  went 
to  the  Salvation  Army  to  worship  Barbara  and  nothing 
else.  And  I  quite  appreciate  the  very  clever  way  in 
which  you  systematically  humbug  me.  I  have  found 
you  out.     Take  care  Barbara  doesnt.     Thats  all. 

CusiNs  (with  unruffled  sweetness).  Dont  tell  on  me. 
(He  goes  out.) 

Lady  Britomart.  Sarah:  if  you  want  to  go,  go. 
Anything's  better  than  to  sit  there  as  if  you  wished  you 
were  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Sarah  (languidly).     Very  well,  mamma.     (She  goes.) 

Lady  Britomart,  ivith  a  sudden  flounce,  gives  way  to 
a  little  gust  of  tears. 

Stephen  (going  to  her).     Mother:  whats  the  matter? 

Lady  Britomart  (swishitig  away  her  tears  with  her 
handkerchief).  Nothing.  Foolishness.  You  can  go 
with  him,  too,  if  you  like,  and  leave  me  with  the  serv- 
ants. 

Stephen.  Oh,  you  mustnt  think  that,  mother.  I — I 
dont  like  him. 

Lady  Britomart.     The  others  do.     That  is  the  in- 


226  Major  Barbara  Act  I 

justice  of  a  woman's  lot.  A  woman  has  to  bring  up  her 
children;  and  that  means  to  restrain  them,  to  deny  them 
things  they  want;,  to  set  them  tasks^,  to  punish  them  when 
they  do  wrong,  to  do  all  the  unpleasant  things.  And 
then  the  father,  who  has  nothing  to  do  but  pet  them  and 
spoil  them,  comes  in  when  all  her  work  is  done  and  steals 
their  affection  from  her. 

Stephen.  He  has  not  stolen  our  affection  from  you. 
It  is  only  curiosity. 

Lady  Britomart  (violently).  I  wont  be  consoled, 
Stephen.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  (She 
rises  and  goes  totvards  the  door.) 

Stephen.     Where  are  you  going,  mother? 

Lady  Britomart.  To  the  drawingroom,  of  course. 
(She  goes  out.  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,  on  the  con- 
certina, with  tambourine  accompaniment,  is  heard  when 
the  door  opens.)     Are  you  coming,  Stephen.'' 

Stephen.  No.  Certainly  not.  (She  goes.  He  sits 
down  on  the  settee,  with  compressed  lips  and  an  expres- 
sion of  strong  dislike.) 


END    OF    ACT 


ACT     II 

The  yard  of  the  West  Ham  shelter  of  the  Salvation 
Army  is  a  cold  place  on  a  January  morning.  The  build- 
ing itself,  an  old  warehouse,  is  newly  whitewashed.  Its 
gabled  end  projects  into  the  yard  in  the  middle,  with  a 
door  on  the  ground  floor,  and  another  in  the  loft  above 
it  without  any  balcony  or  ladder,  but  with  a  pulley  rigged 
over  it  for  hoisting  sacks.  Those  who  come  from  this 
central  gable  end  into  the  yard  have  the  gateway  leading 
to  the  street  on  their  left,  with  a  stone  horse-trough  just 
beyond  it,  and,  on  the  right,  a  penthouse  shielding  a 
table  from  the  weather.  There  are  forms  at  the  table; 
and  on  them  are  seated  a  man  and  a  woman,  both  much 
down  on  their  luck,  finishing  a  meal  of  bread  (one  thick 
slice  each,  with  margarine  and  golden  syrup)  and  diluted 
milk. 

The  man,  a  workman  out  of  employment,  is  young, 
agile,  a  talker,  a  poser,  sharp  enough  to  be  capable  of 
anything  in  reason  except  honesty  or  altruistic  considera- 
tions of  any  kind.  The  woman  is  a  commonplace  old 
bundle  of  poverty  and  hard-worn  humanity.  She  looks 
sixty  and  probably  is  forty-five.  If  they  were  rich 
people,  gloved  and  muffed  and  well  wrapped  up  in  furs 
and  overcoats,  they  would  be  numbed  and  miserable;  for 
it  is  a  grindingly  cold,  raw,  January  day;  and  a  glance 
at  the  background  of  grimy  warehouses  and  leaden  sky 
visible  over  the  whitewashed  walls  of  the  yard  would 
drive  any  idle  rich  person  straight  to  the  Mediterranean. 
But  these  two,  being  no  more  troubled  with  visions  of  the 
Mediterranean  than  of  the  moon,  and  being  compelled 
to  keep  more  of  their  clothes  in  the  pawnshop,  and  less 
on  their  persons,  in  winter  than  in  summer,  are  not  de- 
227 


228  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

pressed  hy  the  cold:  rather  are  they  stung  into  vivacity, 
to  which  their  meal  has  just  now  given  an  almost  jolly 
turn.  The  man  takes  a  pull  at  his  mug,  and  then  gets 
up  and  moves  about  the  yard  with  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets,  occasionally  breaking  into  a  stepdance. 

The  Woman.     Feel  better  arter  your  meal,  sir  ? 

The  Man.  No.  Call  that  a  meal !  Good  enough  for 
you,  praps;  but  wot  is  it  to  me,  an  intelligent  workin 
man. 

The  Woman.     Workin  man!     Wot  are  you? 

The  Man.     Painter. 

The  Woman  (sceptically).     Yus,  I  dessay. 

The  Man.  Yus,  you  dessay !  I  know.  Every  loafer 
that  cant  do  nothink  calls  isself  a  painter.  Well,  I'm  a 
real  painter:  grainer,  finisher,  thirty-eight  bob  a  week 
when  I  can  get  it. 

The  Woman.     Then  why  dont  you  go  and  get  it? 

The  Man.  I'll  tell  you  why.  Fust:  I'm  intelligent 
— fffff !  it's  rotten  cold  here  (he  dances  a  step  or  two) — 
yes:  intelligent  beyond  the  station  o  life  into  which  it 
has  pleased  the  capitalists  to  call  me ;  and  they  dont  like 
a  man  that  sees  through  em.  Second,  an  intelligent  bein 
needs  a  doo  share  of  appiness;  so  I  drink  somethink 
cruel  when  I  get  the  chawnce.  Third,  I  stand  by  my 
class  and  do  as  little  as  I  can  so's  to  leave  arf  the  job 
for  me  fellow  workers.  Fourth,  I'm  fly  enough  to  know 
wots  inside  the  law  and  wots  outside  it;  and  inside  it 
I  do  as  the  capitalists  do:  pinch  wot  I  can  lay  me  ands 
on.  In  a  proper  state  of  society  I  am  sober,  industrious 
and  honest:  in  Rome,  so  to  speak,  I  do  as  the  Romans 
do.  Wots  the  consequence?  When  trade  is  bad — and 
it's  rotten  bad  just  now — and  the  employers  az  to  sack 
arf  their  men,  they  generally  start  on  me. 

The  Woman.     Whats  your  name? 

The  Man.  Price.  Bronterre  O'Brien  Price.  Usu- 
ally called  Snobby  Price,  for  short. 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  229 

The  Woman.  Snobby 's  a  carpenter,  aint  it?  You 
said  you  was  a  painter. 

Price.  Not  that  kind  of  snob,  but  the  genteel  sort. 
I'm  too  uppish,  owing  to  my  intelligence,  and  my  father 
being  a  Chartist  and  a  reading,  thinking  man:  a  sta- 
tioner, too.  I'm  none  of  your  common  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water;  and  dont  you  forget  it.  (He 
returns  to  ]iis  seat  at  the  table,  and  takes  up  his  mug.) 
Wots  your  name  ? 

The  Woman.     Rummy  Mitchens,  sir. 

Price  (quaffing  the  remains  of  his  milk  to  her).  Your 
elth.  Miss  Mitchens. 

Rummy  {correcting  him).     Missis  Mitchens. 

Price.  Wot !  Oh  Rummy,  Rummy !  Respectable 
married  woman.  Rummy,  gittin  rescued  by  the  Sal- 
vation Army  by  pretendin  to  be  a  bad  un.  Same  old 
game! 

~"  Rummy.  What  am  I  to  do?  I  cant  starve.  Them 
Salvation  lasses  is  dear  good  girls ;  but  the  better  you 
are,  the  worse  they  likes  to  think  you  were  before  they 
rescued  you.  Why  shouldnt  the}'^  av  a  bit  o  credit,  poor 
loves?  they're  worn  to  rags  by  their  work.  And  where 
would  they  get  the  money  to  rescue  us  if  we  was  to  let 
on  we're  no  worse  than  other  people?  You  know  what 
ladies  and  gentlemen  are. 

Price.  Thievin  swine!  Wish  I  ad  their  job.  Rummy, 
all  the  same.  Wot  does  Rummy  stand  for?  Pet  name 
praps  ? 

Rummy.     Short  for  Romola. 

Price.     For  wot!? 

Rummy.  Romola.  It  was  out  of  a  new  book.  Some- 
body me  mother  wanted  me  to  grow  up  like. 

Price.  We're  companions  in  misfortune,  Rummy. 
Both  on  us  got  names  that  nobody  cawnt  pronounce. 
Consequently  I'm  Snobby  and  youre  Rummy  because  Bill 
and  Sally  wasnt  good  enough  for  our  parents.  Such  is 
life! 


230  ]Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Rummy.  Wlio  saved  you,  Mr.  Price?  Was  it  Major 
Barbara .'' 

Price.  No:  I  come  here  on  my  own.  I'm  goin  to  be 
Bronterre  O'Brien  Price,  the  converted  painter.  I  know- 
wot  they  like.  I'll  tell  em  how  I  blasphemed  and  gam- 
bled and  wopped  my  poor  old  mother 

Rummy  (shocked).     Used  you  to  beat  your  mother? 

Price.  Not  likely.  She  used  to  beat  me.  No  mat- 
ter: you  come  and  listen  to  the  converted  painter,  and 
youll  hear  how  she  was  a  pious  woman  that  taught  me 
me  prayers  at  er  knee,  an  how  I  used  to  come  home 
drunk  and  drag  her  out  o  bed  be  er  snow  white  airs,  an 
lam  into  er  with  the  poker. 

Rummy.  Thats  whats  so  imfair  to  us  women.  Your 
confessions  is  just  as  big  lies  as  ours:  you  dont  tell 
what  you  really  done  no  more  than  us;  but  you  men 
can  tell  your  lies  right  out  at  the  meetins  and  be  made 
much  of  for  it;  while  the  sort  o  confessions  we  az  to 
make  az  to  be  whispered  to  one  lady  at  a  time.  It  aint 
right,  spite  of  all  their  piety. 

Price.  Right !  Do  you  spose  the  Army  'd  be  allowed 
if  it  went  and  did  right?  Not  much.  It  combs  our  air 
and  makes  us  good  little  blokes  to  be  robbed  and  put 
upon.  But  I'll  play  the  game  as  good  as  any  of  em. 
I'll  see  somebody  struck  by  lightnin,  or  hear  a  voice 
sayin  "Snobby  Price:  where  will  you  spend  eternity?" 
I'll  ave  a  time  of  it,  I  tell  you. 

Rummy.     You  wont  be  let  drink,  though. 

Price.  I'll  take  it  out  in  gorspellin,  then.  I  dont 
want  to  drink  if  I  can  get  fun  enough  any  other  way. 

Jenny  Hill,  a  pale,  overwrought,  pretty  Salvation  lass 
of  18,  comes  in  through  the  yard  gate,  leading  Peter 
Shirley,  a  half  hardened,  half  worn-out  elderly  man, 
weak  with  hunger. 

Jenny  (supporting  him).  Come!  pluck  up.  I'll  get 
you  something  to  eat.     Youll  be  all  right  then. 

Price  (rising  and  hurrying  officiously  to  take  the  old 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  231 

man  off  Jenny's  hands).  Poor  old  man!  Cheer  up, 
brother:  youll  find  rest  and  peace  and  appiness  ere. 
Hurry  up  with  the  food,  miss:  e's  fair  done.  (Jenny 
hurries  into  the  shelter.)  Ere,  buck  up,  daddy!  shes 
fetchin  y'a  thick  slice  o  breadn  treacle,  an  a  mug  o  sky- 
blue.     (He  seats  him  at  the  corner  of  the  table.) 

Rummy  (gaily).  Keep  up  your  old  art!  Never  say 
die! 

Shirley.  I'm  not  an  old  man.  I'm  ony  46.  I'm  as 
good  as  ever  I  was.  The  grey  patch  come  in  my  hair 
before  I  was  thirty.  All  it  wants  is  three  pennorth  o 
hair  dye:  am  I  to  be  turned  on  the  streets  to  starve  for 
it.''  Holy  God!  I've  worked  ten  to  twelve  hours  a  day 
since  I  was  thirteen,  and  paid  my  way  all  through;  and 
now  am  I  to  be  thrown  into  the  gutter  and  my  job  given 
to  a  young  man  that  can  do  it  no  better  than  me  because 
Ive  black  hair  that  goes  white  at  the  first  change.'' 

Price  (cheerfully).  No  good  jawrin  about  it.  Youre 
ony  a  jumped-up,  jerked-ofF,  orspittle-turned-out  incur- 
able of  an  ole  workin  man:  who  cares  about  you?  Eh.'' 
Make  the  thievin  swine  give  you  a  meal:  theyve  stole 
many  a  one  from  you.  Get  a  bit  o  your  own  back. 
(Jenny  returns  with  the  usual  meal.)  There  you  are, 
brother.     Awsk  a  blessin  an  tuck  that  into  you. 

Shirley  (looking  at  it  ravenously  but  not  touching 
it,  and  crying  like  a  child).  I  never  took  anything 
before. 

Jenny  (petting  him).  Come,  come!  the  Lord  sends 
it  to  you :  he  wasnt  above  taking  bread  from  his  friends ; 
and  why  should  you  be?  Besides,  when  we  find  you  a 
job  you  can  pay  us  for  it  if  you  like. 

Shirley  (eagerly).  Yes,  yes:  thats  true.  I  can  pay 
you  back:  its  only  a  loan.  (Shivering.)  Oh  Lord!  oh 
Lord !  (He  turns  to  the  table  and  attacks  the  meal 
ravenously.) 

Jenny.      Well,    Rummy,   are   you   more   comfortable 


232  ^lajor  Barbara  Act  II 

Rummy.  God  bless  you,  lovey!  youve  fed  my  body 
and  saved  my  soul,  havent  you  ?  {Jenny,  touched,  kisses 
her. )    Sit  doAvn  and  rest  a  bit :  you  must  be  ready  to  drop. 

Jenny.  Ive  been  going  hard  since  morning.  But 
theres  more  work  than  we  can  do.     I  mustnt  stop. 

Rummy.  Try  a  prayer  for  just  two  minutes.  YouU 
work  all  the  better  after. 

Jenny  (her  eyes  lighting  up).  Oh  isnt  it  wonder- 
ful how  a  few  minutes  prayer  revives  you !  I  was  quite 
lightheaded  at  twelve  o'clock,  I  was  so  tired;  but  Major 
Barbara  just  sent  me  to  pray  for  five  minutes;  and  I 
was  able  to  go  on  as  if  I  had  only  just  begim.  (To 
Price.)     Did  you  have  a  piece  of  bread? 

Price  (with  unction).  Yes,  miss;  but  Ive  got  the 
piece  that  I  value  more ;  and  thats  the  peace  that  passeth 
hall  hannerstennin. 

Rummy  (fervently).     Glory  Hallelujah! 

Bill  Walker,  a  rough  customer  of  about  25,  appears 
at  the  yard  gate  and  looks  malevolently  at  Jenny. 

Jenny.  That  makes  me  so  happy.  When  you  say 
that,  I  feel  wicked  for  loitering  here.  I  must  get  to 
work  again. 

She  is  hurrying  to  the  shelter,  when  the  new-comer 
moves  quickly  up  to  the  door  and  intercepts  her.  His 
manner  is  so  threatening  that  she  retreats  as  he  comes 
at  her  truculently,  driving  her  down  the  yard. 

Bill.  I  know  you.  Youre  the  one  that  took  away 
my  girl.  Youre  the  one  that  set  er  agen  me.  Well,  I'm 
goin  to  av  er  out.  Not  that  I  care  a  curse  for  her 
or  you:  see?  But  I'll  let  er  know;  and  I'll  let  you 
know.  I'm  goin  to  give  er  a  doin  thatll  teach  er  to  cut 
away  from  me.  Now  in  with  you  and  tell  er  to  come 
out  afore  I  come  in  and  kick  er  out.  Tell  er  Bill  Walker 
wants  er.  She'll  know  what  that  means;  and  if  she 
keeps  me  waitin  itll  be  worse.  You  stop  to  jaw  back 
at  me;  and  I'll  start  on  you:  d'ye  hear?  Theres  your 
way.     In  you  go.     (He  takes  her  by  the  arm  and  slings 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  233 

her  towards  the  door  of  the  shelter.  She  falls  on  her 
hand  and  knee.     Rummy  helps  her  up  again.) 

Price  {rising,  and  venturing  irresolutely  towards 
Bill).  Easy  there,  mate.     She  aint  doin  you  no  arm. 

Bill.  Who  are  you  callin  mate?  (Standing  over  him 
threateningly.)  Youre  goin  to  stand  up  for  her,  are 
you?     Put  up  your  ands. 

Rummy  {running  indignantly  to  him  to  scold  him). 
Oh,  you  great  brute —  {He  instantly  swings  his  left 
hand  back  against  her  face.  She  screams  and  reels  back 
to  the  trough,  where  she  sits  down,  covering  her  bruised 
face  with  her  hands  and  rocking  herself  and  moaning 
with  pain.) 

Jenny  {going  to  her).  Oh  God  forgive  you!  How 
could  you  strike  an  old  woman  like  that? 

Bill  {seizing  her  by  the  hair  so  violently  that  she  also 
screams,  and  tearing  her  away  from  the  old  woman)., 
You  Gawd  forgive  me  again  and  I'll  Gawd  forgive  you 
one  on  the  jaw  thatll  stop  you  prayin  for  a  week. 
{Holding  her  and  turning  fiercely  on  Price.)  Av  you 
anything  to  say  agen  it?     Eh? 

Price  {intimidated).  No,  matey:  she  aint  anything 
to  do  with  me. 

Bill.  Good  job  for  you!  I'd  put  two  meals  into  you 
and  fight  you  with  one  finger  after,  you  starved  cur. 
{To  Jenny.)  Now  are  you  goin  to  fetch  out  Mog  Hab- 
bijam;  or  am  I  to  knock  yotir  face  off  you  and  fetch  her 
myself  ? 

Jenny  {writhing  in  his  grasp).  Oh  please  someone 
go  in  and  tell  Major  Barbara —  {she  screams  again  as 
he  wrenches  her  head  down;  and  Price  and  Rummy  flee 
into  the  shelter). 

Bill.  You  want  to  go  in  and  tell  your  Major  of  me, 
do  you? 

Jenny.     Oh  please  dont  drag  my  hair.     Let  me  go. 

Bill.  Do  you  or  dont  you?  {She  stifles  a  scream.) 
Yes  or  no. 


234  IMajor  Barbara  Act  II 

Jenny.     God  give  me  strength — 

Bill  {striking  her  with  his  fist  in  the  face).  Go  and 
shew  her  that,  and  tell  her  if  she  wants  one  like  it  to 
come  and  interfere  with  me.  {Jenny,  crying  with  pain, 
goes  into  the  shed.  He  goes  to  the  form  and  addresses 
the  old  man.)  Here:  finish  your  mess;  and  get  out  o 
my  way. 

Shirley  (springing  up  and  facing  him  fiercely,  with 
the  mug  in  his  hand).  You  take  a  liberty  with  me,  and 
I'll  smash  you  over  the  face  with  the  mug  and  cut  your 
eye  out.  Aint  you  satisfied — young  whelps  like  you— 
with  takin  the  bread  out  o  the  mouths  of  your  elders 
that  have  brought  you  up  and  slaved  for  you,  but  you 
must  come  shovin  and  cheekin  and  bullyin  in  here,  where 
the  bread  o  charity  is  sickeniii  in  our  stummicks  ? 

Bill  (contemptuously,  but  backing  a  little).  Wot 
good  are  you,  you  old  palsy  mug?     Wot  good  are  you? 

Shirley.  As  good  as  you  and  better.  I'll  do  a  day's 
work  agen  you  or  any  fat  young  soaker  of  your  age. 
Go  and  take  my  job  at  Horrockses,  where  I  worked  fcr 
ten  year.  They  want  young  men  there:  they  cant  afford 
to  keep  men  over  forty-five.  Theyre  very  sorry — give 
3'^ou  a  character  and  happy  to  help  you  to  get  anything 
suited  to  your  years — sure  a  steady  man  wont  be  long 
out  of  a  job.  Well,  let  em  try  you.  Theyll  find  the 
differ.  What  do  y  o  u  know  ?  Not  as  much  as  how  to 
beeyave  yourself — layin  your  dirty  fist  across  the  mouth 
of  a  respectable  woman! 

Bill.  Dont  provoke  me  to  lay  it  acrost  yours:  d'ye 
hear  ? 

Shirley  (with  blighting  contempt).  Yes:  you  like 
an  old  man  to  hit,  dont  you,  when  youve  finished  with 
the  women.     I  aint  seen  you  hit  a  young  one  yet. 

Bill  (sttmg).  You  lie,  you  old  soupkitchener,  you. 
There  was  a  yoimg  man  here.  Did  I  offer  to  hit  him 
or  did  I  not? 

Shirley.     Was  he  starvin  or  was  he  not?     Was  he 


Act  n  Major  Barbara  235 

a  man  or  only  a  crosseyed  thief  an  a  loafer?  Would 
you  hit  my  son-in-law's  brother? 

Bill.     Who's  he? 

Shirley.  Todger  Fairmile  o  Balls  Pond.  Him  that 
won  £20  off  the  Japanese  wrastler  at  the  music  hall  by 
standin  out  17  minutes  4  seconds  agen  him. 

Bill  (sullenly).  I'm  no  music  hall  wrastler.  Can  he 
box? 

Shirley.     Yes:  an  you  cant. 

Bill.  Wot!  I  cant,  cant  I?  Wots  that  you  say 
(threatening  him)  ? 

Shirley  (tiot  budging  an  inch).  Will  you  box 
Todger  Fairmile  if  I  put  him  on  to  you  ?     Say  the  word. 

Bill  (subsiding  with  a  slouch).  I'll  stand  up  to  any 
man  alive,  if  he  was  ten  Todger  Fairmiles.  But  I  dont 
set  up  to  be  a  perfessional. 

Shirley  (looking  down  on  him  with  unfathomable 
disdain).  You  box !  Slap  an  old  woman  with  the  back 
o  your  hand !  You  hadnt  even  the  sense  to  hit  her  where 
a  magistrate  couldnt  see  the  mark  of  it,  you  silly  young 
lump  of  conceit  and  ignorance.  Hit  a  girl  in  the  jaw 
and  ony  make  her  cry !  If  Todger  Fairmile'd  done  it, 
she  wouldnt  a  got  up  inside  o  ten  minutes,  no  more  than 
you  would  if  he  got  on  to  you.  Yah!  I'd  set  about 
you  myself  if  I  had  a  week's  feedin  in  me  instead  o  two 
months  starvation.  (He  returns  to  the  table  to  finish 
his  meal.) 

Bill  (following  him  and  stooping  over  him  to  drive 
the  taunt  in).  You  lie!  you  have  the  bread  and  treacle 
in  you  that  you  come  here  to  beg. 

Shirley  (bursting  into  tears).  Oh  God!  it's  true: 
I'm  only  an  old  pauper  on  the  scrap  heap.  (Furiously.) 
But  youU  come  to  it  yourself;  and  then  youll  know. 
Youll  come  to  it  sooner  than  a  teetotaller  like  me,  fillin 
yourself  with  gin  at  this  hour  o  the  mornin ! 

Bill.  I'm  no  gin  drinker,  you  old  liar;  but  when  I 
want  to  give  my  girl  a  bloomin  good  idin  I  like  to  av  a 


236  Major  Barbara  Act  n 

bit  o  defH  in  me:  see?  An  here  I  am,  taDdn  to  a  rotten 
(dd  bligbter  like  joa  sted  o  girin  bo*  wot  for,  {Work- 
ing himself  into  a  rage.)  I'm  goin  in  there  to  fetch  her 
out.     {He  make*  vemgefmlly  for  the  shelter  door.) 

Shokxct.  Yoaxe  gain  to  the  staticm  on  a  strefa^ier, 
more  Hkely;  and  tfaejll  take  the  gin  and  the  devil  ont 
of  joa  tfaoe  when  tl^  get  joa  inside.  Ton  mind  what 
jonre  abont:  the  major  here  is  the  Earl  o  Sterenage's 
granddanghter. 

'Biw  (cheeked).    Gam! 

SHtRi.ET.     Yooll  see. 

Bu,i.  (his  resolmtkm  oozimg).  Well,  I  aint  done  notb- 
in  to  er, 

Shirijet.    Spoce  the  said  70a  did!  wbo'd  believe  70a? 

Biu.  (rery  uneasif,  skulking  back  to  the  comer  of  the 
pemthomse).  Gawd!  theres  no  jastice  in  this  eotmtrj. 
To  dunk  wot  than  people  can  do !    I'm  as  gc»od  as  er. 

SwsKUEY.  Tell  ha  so.  Its  jttst  what  a  fool  like  yoo 
would  do. 

Barbara,  brisk  and  bmsmesslike,  comes  from  the  shel- 
ter with  a  note  hook,  and  addresses  herself  to  Shhieg. 
BiU,  corned,  sits  domm  in  the  comer  on  a  form,  and 
turns  his  hack  on  them, 

Basbaba.    Good  mormag, 

SxOkuet  (st4aidimg  up  and  taking  of  his  hat).    Good 

Bjuajou,  Sit  down:  make  jonrself  at  bomeu  (He 
hesitates;  but  she  puts  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  makes  Jum  obey.)  Now  tben!  since  joore  made 
friends  widi  ns,  we  want  to  know  all  aboot  joo.  ISames 
and  addresses  and  trades, 

SmuMJsr.  Pet»  Sbirkj,  Fitter.  Chocked  out  two 
mondis  ago  becaose  I  was  too  did. 

Bambaka  (not  at  all  surprised).  Yood  pass  stilL 
Wl^  didnt  JOO  dje  jam  hair? 

SamusT.  I  did.  Me  age  oome  oat  at  a  ooroner's  in- 
4|iKst  on  me  daiiglrtcr. 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  237 

Barbara.     Steady  ? 

Shirley.  Teetotaller.  Never  out  of  a  job  before. 
Good  worker.  And  sent  to  the  knackers  like  an  old 
horse ! 

Barbara.  No  matter:  if  you  did  your  part  God  will 
do  his. 

Shirley  {suddenly  stubborn).  My  religion's  no  con- 
cern of  ivnybody  but  myself. 

Barbara   {guessing).     I  know.     Secularist? 

Shirley  (hotly).     Did  I  ofi'er  to  deny  it.'' 

Barbara.  Why  should  you.^  My  own  father's  a 
Secularist,  I  think.  Our  Father — yours  and  mine — ful- 
fils himself  in  many  ways;  and  I  daresay  he  knew  what 
he  was  about  when  he  made  a  Secularist  of  you.  So 
buck  up,  Peter!  we  can  always  find  a  job  for  a  steady 
man  like  you.  {Shirley,  disarmed,  touches  his  hat.  She 
turns  from  him  to  Bdl.)     "NMiats  your  name.^ 

Bill  (insolently).     Wots  that  to  you? 

Barbara  (calmly  making  a  note).  Afraid  to  give  his 
name.     Any  trade? 

Bill.  Who's  afraid  to  give  his  name?  (Doggedly, 
rvith  a  sense  of  heroically  defying  the  House  of  Lords 
in  the  person  of  Lord  Stevenage.)  If  you  want  to  bring 
a  charge  agen  me,  bring  it.  (She  nraits,  unruffled.)  My 
name's  Bill  Walker. 

Barbara  (as  if  the  name  rvere  familiar:  trying  to 
remember  hon').  Bill  Walker?  (Recollecting.)  Oh, 
I  know:  youre  the  man  that  Jenny  Hill  was  praying  for 
inside  just  now.     (She  enters  his  name  in  her  note  book.) 

Bill.  Who's  Jenny  Hill?  And  what  call  has  she  to 
pray  for  me? 

Barb.vra.  I  dont  know.  Perhaps  it  was  you  that  cut 
her  lip. 

Bill  (defiantly).  Yes,  it  was  me  that  cut  her  lip. 
I  aint  afraid  o  y  o  u. 

Barbara.  How  could  you  be,  since  youre  not  afraid 
of  God?      Youre  a  brave  man,   Mr.   Walker.      It  takes 


238  INIajor  Barbara  Act  n 

some  pluck  to  do  our  work  here ;  but  none  of  us  dare 
lift  our  hand  against  a  girl  like  that,  for  fear  of  her 
father  in  heaven. 

Bill  (sullenly).  I  want  none  o  your  cantin  jaw.  I 
suppose  Tou  think  I  come  here  to  beg  from  you,  like 
this  damaged  lot  here.  Not  me.  I  dont  want  your 
bread  and  scrape  and  catlap.  I  dont  believe  in  your 
Gawd,  no  more  than  you  do  yourself. 

Barbara  (sunnily  apologetic  and  ladylike,  as  on  a 
new  footing  with  him).  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
putting  your  name  do^vn,  Mr.  Walker.  I  didnt  under- 
stand.    I'll  strike  it  out. 

Bill  (taking  this  as  a  slight,  and  deeply  mounded  by 
it).  Eah!  you  let  my  name  alone.  Aint  it  good  enough 
to  be  in  your  book? 

Barbara  (considering).  Well,  you  see,  theres  no  use 
putting  doAvn  your  name  unless  I  can  do  something  for 
you,  is  there.''     ^Miats  your  trade.'' 

Bill  (still  smarting).     Thats  no  concern  o  yours. 

Barbara.  Just  so.  (Very  businesslike.)  I'll  put 
you  down  as  (writing)  the  man  who — struck — poor  little 
Jenny  Hill — in  the  mouth. 

Bill  (rising  threateningly).  See  here.  Ive  ad 
enough  o  this. 

Barbara  (quite  sunny  and  fearless).  What  did  you 
come  to  us  for? 

Bill.  I  come  for  my  girl,  see?  I  come  to  take  her 
out  o  this  and  to  break  er  jawr  for  her. 

Barbara  (complacently).  You  see  I  was  right  about 
your  trade.  (Bill,  on  the  point  of  retorting  furiously, 
finds  himself,  to  his  great  shame  and  terror,  in  danger 
of  crying  instead.  He  sits  down  again  suddenly.) 
^\^lats  her  name? 

Bill  (dogged).  Er  name's  Mog  Abbijam:  thats  wot 
her  name  is. 

Barbara.  Oh,  she's  gone  to  Canning  Town,  to  our 
barracks  there. 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  239 

Bill  {fortified  by  his  resentment  of  Mog's  perfidy). 
Is  she?  (Vindictively.)  Then  I'txi  goin  to  Kennintahn 
arter  her.  (He  crosses  to  the  gate;  hesitates;  finally 
comes  back  at  Barbara.)  Are  you  lyin  to  me  to  get 
shut  o  me? 

Barbara.  I  dont  want  to  get  shut  of  you.  •  I  want 
to  keep  you  here  and  save  your  soul.  Youd  better  stay: 
youre  gohig  to  have  a  bad  time  today.  Bill. 

Bill.     Who's  goin  to  give  it  to  me?     You,  praps. 

Barbara.  Someone  you  dont  believe  in.  But  youll 
be  glad  afterwards. 

Bill  (slinking  off).     I'll  go  to  Kennintahn  to  be  out 

0  the  reach  o  your  tongue.  (Suddenly  turning  on  her 
with  intense  malice.)  And  if  I  dont  find  Mog  there, 
I'll  come  back  and  do  two  years  for  you,  selp  me  Gawd 
if  I   don't! 

Barbara  (a  shade  hindlier,  if  possible).  It's  no  use. 
Bill.     Shes  got  another  bloke. 

Bill.     Wot ! 

Barbara.  One  of  her  own  converts.  He  fell  in  love 
with  her  when  he  saw  her  with  her  soul  saved,  and  her 
face  clean,  and  her  hair  washed. 

Bill  (surprised).  Wottud  she  wash  it  for,  the  car- 
roty slut?     It's  red. 

Barbara.  It's  quite  lovely  now,  because  she  wears  a 
new  look  in  her  eyes  with  it.  It's  a  pity  youre  too  late. 
The  new  bloke  has  put  your  riose  out  of  joint.  Bill. 

Bill.     I'll  put  his  nose  out  o  joint  for  him.     Not  that 

1  care  a  curse  for  her,  mind  that.  But  I'll  teach  her 
to  drop  me  as  if  I  was  dirt.  And  I'll  teach  him  to 
meddle  with  my  Judy.     Wots  iz  bleedin  name? 

Barbara.     Sergeant  Todger  Fairmile. 

Shirley  (rising  with  grim  joy).  I'll  go  with  him, 
miss.  I  want  to  see  them  two  meet.  I'll  take  him  to 
the  infirmary  when  it's  over. 

Bill  (to  Shirley,  with  undissembled  misgiving).  Is 
that  im  you  was  speakin  on? 


240  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Shirley.     Thats  him. 

Bill.     Im  that  wrastled  in  the  music  all? 

Shirley.  The  competitions  at  the  National  Sportin 
Club  was  worth  nigh  a  hundred  a  year  to  him.  Hes 
gev  em  up  now  for  religion;  so  hes  a  bit  fresh  for  want 
of  the  exercise  he  was  accustomed  to.  Hell  be  glad  to 
see  you.     Come  along. 

Bill.     Wots  is  weight? 

Shirley.     Thirteen  four.      (Bill's  last  hope  expires.) 

Barbara.  Go  and  talk  to  him,  Bill.  He'll  convert 
you. 

Shirley.  He'll  convert  your  head  into  a  mashed 
potato. 

Bill  {sullenly) .  I  aint  afraid  of  him.  I  aint  afraid 
of  ennybody.  But  he  can  lick  me.  Shes  done  me.  (He 
sits  down  moodily  on  the  edge  of  the  horse  trough.) 

Shirley.  You  aint  goin.  I  thought  not.  (He  re- 
sumes his  seat.) 

Barbara  (calling).     Jenny! 

Jenny  (appearing  at  the  shelter  door  with  a  plaster 
on  the  corner  of  her  mouth).     Yes,  Major. 

Barbara.  Send  Rummy  Mitchens  out  to  clear  away 
here. 

Jenny.     I  think  shes  afraid. 

Barbara  (her  resemblance  to  her  mother  flashing  out 
for  a  moment).     Nonsense!  she  must  do  as  shes  told. 

Jenny  (calling  into  the  shelter).  Rummy:  the  Major 
says  you  must  come. 

Jenny  comes  to  Barbara,  purposely  keeping  on  the 
side  next  Bill,  lest  he  should  suppose  that  she  shrank 
from  him  or  bore  malice. 

Barbara.  Poor  little  Jenny!  Are  you  tired?  (Look- 
ing at  the  wounded  cheek.)     Does  it  hurt? 

Jenny.     No  :  it's  all  right  now.     It  was  nothing. 

Barbara  (critically).  It  was  as  hard  as  he  could 
hit,  I  expect.  Poor  Bill!  You  dont  feel  angry  with 
him,  do  you? 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  241 

Jenny.  Oh  no,  no,  no:  indeed  I  dont,  Major,  bless 
his  poor  heart !  {Barbara  hisses  her;  and  she  runs  away 
merrily  into  the  shelter.  Bill  ivrithes  with  an  (Agonising 
return  of  his  new  and  alarming  symptoms,  hut  says  noth- 
ing.    Rummy  Mitchens  comes  from  the  shelter.) 

Barbara  (going  to  meet  Rummy).  Now  Rummy, 
bustle.  Take  in  those  mugs  and  plates  to  be  washed; 
and  throw  the  crumbs  about  for  the  birds. 

Rummy  takes  the  three  plates  and  mugs;  but  Shirley 
takes  back  his  mug  from  her,  as  there  is  still  some  milk 
left  in  it. 

Rummy.  There  aint  any  crumbs.  This  aint  a  time  to 
waste  good  bread  on  birds. 

Price  {appearing  at  the  shelter  door).  Gentleman 
come  to  see  the  shelter.  Major.     Says  hes  your  father. 

Barbara.  All  right.  Coming.  (Snobby  goes  back 
into  the  shelter,  followed  by  Barbara.) 

Rummy  (stealing  across  to  Bill  and  addressing  him 
in  a  subdued  voice,  but  with  intense  conviction).  I'd 
av  the  lor  of  you,  you  flat  eared  pignosed  potwalloper, 
if  she'd  let  me.  Youre  no  gentleman,  to  hit  a  lady  in 
the  face.  (Bill,  with  greater  things  moving  in  him, 
takes  no  notice.) 

Shirley  (following  her).  Here!  in  with  you  and 
dont  get  yourself  into  more  trouble  by  talking. 

Rummy  (with  hauteur).  I  aint  ad  the  pleasure  o 
being  hintroduced  to  you,  as  I  can  remember.  (She 
goes  into  the  shelter  with  the  plates.) 

Shirley.     Thats  the — 

Bill  (savagely).  Dont  you  talk  to  me,  d'ye  hear. 
You  lea  me  alone,  or  I'll  do  you  a  mischief.  I'm  not 
dirt  under  your  feet,  anyway. 

Shiri^ey  (calmly).  Dont  you  be  afeerd.  You  aint  such 
prime  company  that  you  need  expect  to  be  sought  after. 
(He  is  about  to  go  into  the  shelter  when  Barbara  comes 
out,  with  Undershaft  on  her  right.) 

Barbara.     Oh  there  you  are,  Mr.  Shirley !     (Between 


242  ^lajor  Barbara  Act  11 

them.)  This  is  my  father:  I  told  yon  he  was  a  Sectlar- 
ist,  didnt  I?  Perhaps  youll  be  able  to  comfort  one 
another. 

Undershaft  (startled).  A  Secularist!  Not  the 
least  in  the  world:  on  the  contrary,  a  confirmed  mystic. 

Barbara.  Sorry,  I'm  sure.  By  the  way,  papa,  what 
i  s  your  religion — in  case  I  have  to  introduce  you  again  ? 

Undershaft.  My  religion?  Well,  my  dear,  I  am  a 
Millionaire.     That  is  my  religion. 

Barbara.  Then  I'm  afraid  you  and  Mr.  Shirley  wont 
be  able  to  comfort  one  another  after  all.  Youre  not  a 
Millionaire,  are  you,  Peter? 

Shirley.     No;  and  proud  of  it. 

Undershaft  (gravely).  Poverty,  my  friend,  is  not 
a  thing  to  be  proud  of. 

Shirley  (angrily).  "N^Tio  made  your  millions  for 
you?  Me  and  my  like.  Whats  kep  us  poor?  Keepin 
you  rich.  I  wouldnt  have  your  conscience,  not  for  all 
your  income. 

Undershaft.  I  wouldnt  have  your  income,  not  tot 
all  your  conscience,  Mr.  Shirley.  (He  goes  to  the  pent' 
house  and  sits  down  on  a  form.) 

Barbara  (stopping  Shirley  adroitly  as  he  is  about  to 
retort).  You  wouldnt  think  he  was  my  father,  would 
you,  Peter?  Will  you  go  into  the  shelter  and  lend  the 
lasses  a  hand  for  a  while:  we're  worked  off  our  feet. 

Shirley  (bitterly).  Yes:  I'm  in  their  debt  for  a 
meal,  aint  I? 

Barbara.  Oh,  not  because  youre  in  their  debt;  but 
for  love  of  them,  Peter,  for  love  of  them.  (He  cannot 
understand,  and  is  rather  scandalised.)  There!  dont 
stare  at  me.  In  with  you;  and  give  that  conscience  of 
yours  a  holiday  (bustling  him  into  the  shelter). 

Shirley  (as  he  goes  in).  Ah!  it's  a  pity  you  never 
was  trained  to  use  your  reason,  miss.  Youd  have  been 
a  very  taking  lecturer  on  Secularism. 

Barbara  turns  to  her  father. 


!• 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  243 

Undershaft.  Never  mind  me,  my  dear.  Go  about 
your  work;  and  let  me  watch  it  for  a  while. 

Barbara.     All  right. 

Undershaft.  For  instance,  whats  the  matter  with 
that  out-patient  over  there.'' 

Barbara  {looking  at  Bill,  whose  attitude  has  never 
changed,  and  whose  expression  of  brooding  wrath  has 
deepened).  Oh,  we  shall  cure  him  in  no  time.  Just 
watch.  {She  goes  over  to  Bill  and  waits.  He  glances 
up  at  her  and  casts  his  eyes  down  again,  uneasy,  hut 
grimmer  than  ever.)  It  would  be  nice  to  just  stamp 
on  Mog  Habbi jam's  face,  wouldnt  it.  Bill? 

Bill  (starting  up  from  the  trough  in  consternation). 
It's  a  lie:  I  never  said  so.  (She  shakes  her  head.)  Who 
told  you  wot  was  in  my  mind? 

Barbara.     Only  your  new  friend. 

Bill.     Wot  new  friend? 

Barbara.  The  devil.  Bill.  When  he  gets  round 
people  they  get  miserable,  just  like  you. 

Bill  (with  a  heartbreaking  attempt  at  devil-may-care 
cheerfulness).  I  aint  miserable.  (He  sits  down  again, 
and  stretches  his  legs  in  an  attempt  to  seem  indifferent.) 

Barbara.  Well,  if  youre  happy,  why  dont  you  look 
happy,  as  we  do? 

Bill  (his  legs  curling  back  in  spite  of  him).  I'm 
appy  enough,  I  tell  you.  Why  dont  you  lea  me  alown? 
Wot  av  I  done  to  y  o  u ?  "I  aint  smashed  your  face, 
av  I  ? 

Barbara  (softly:  wooing  his  soul).  It's  not  me  thats 
getting  at  you.  Bill. 

Bill.     Who  else  is  it? 

Barbara.  Somebody  that  doesnt  intend  you  to  smash 
women's  faces,  I  suppose.  Somebody  or  something  that 
wants  to  make  a  man  of  you. 

Bill  (blustering).  Make  a  man  o  me!  Aint  I  a 
man?  eh?  aint  I  a  man?     Wlio  sez  I'm  not  a  man? 

Barbara.     Theres  a  man  in  you  somewhere,  I  sup- 


244  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

pose.  But  why  did  he  let  you  hit  poor  little  Jenny  Hill? 
That  wasnt  very  manly  of  him^  was  it? 

Bill  {tormented).  Av  done  with  it,  I  tell  you.  Chack 
it.     I'm  sick  of  your  Jenny  111  and  er  silly  little  face. 

Barbara.  Then  why  do  you  keep  thinking  about  it? 
"Wliy  does  it  keep  coming  up  against  you  in  your  mind? 
Youre  not  getting  converted,  are  you? 

Bill  {with  conviction).  Not  me.  Not  likely.  Not 
arf. 

Barbara.  Thats  right,  Bill.  Hold  out  against  it. 
Put  out  your  strength.  Dont  lets  get  you  cheap.  Todger 
Fairmile  said  he  wrestled  for  three  nights  against  his 
Salvation  harder  than  he  ever  wrestled  with  the  Jap  at 
the  music  hall.  He  gave  in  to  the  Jap  when  his  arm 
was  going  to  break.  But  he  didnt  give  in  to  his  salvation 
until  his  heart  was  going  to  break.  Perhaps  youll 
escape  that.     You  havnt  any  heart,  have  you? 

Bill.  Wot  d'ye  mean?  Wy  aint  I  got  a  art  the  same 
as  ennybody  else? 

Barbara.  A  man  with  a  heart  wouldnt  have  bashed 
poor  little  Jenny's  face,  would  he? 

Bill  {almost  crying).  Ow,  will  you  lea  me  alown? 
Av  I  ever  offered  to  meddle  with  you,  that  you  come 
naggin  and  provowkin  me  lawk  this?  {He  writhes  con- 
vulsively from  his  eyes  to  his  toes.) 

Barbara  {tvith  a  steady  soothing  hand  on  his  arm 
and  a  gentle  voice  that  never  lets  him  go).  It's  your 
soul  thats  hurting  you.  Bill,  and  not  me.  Weve  been 
through  it  all  ourselves.  Come  with  us.  Bill.  {He  looks 
wildly  round).  To  brave  manhood  on  earth  and  eternal 
glory  in  heaven.  {He  is  on  the  point  of  breaking  down.) 
Come.  {A  drum  is  heard  in  the  shelter;  and  Bill,  tvith 
a  gasp,  escapes  from  the  spell  as  Barbara  turns  quickly. 
Adolphus  enters  from  the  shelter  with  a  big  drum.)  Oh! 
there  you  are,  Dollv.  Let  me  introduce  a  new  friend 
of  mine,  Mr.  Bill  Walker.  This  is  my  bloke.  Bill:  Mr. 
Cusins.     {Cusins  salutes  with  his  drumstick.) 


Act  n  Major  Barbara  245 

Bill.     Goin  to  marry  im? 

Baubara.     Yes. 

Bill  {fervently).     Gord  elp  im!     Gawd  elp  im! 

Barbara.  Why?  Do  you  think  he  wont  be  happy 
with  me."* 

Bill.  Ive  only  ad  to  stand  it  for  a  mornin:  e'll  av  to 
stand  it  for  a  lifetime. 

CusiNs.  That  is  a  frightful  reflection,  Mr.  Walker. 
But  I  cant  tear  myself  away  from  her. 

Bill.  Well,  I  can.  {To  Barbara.)  Eah!  do  you 
know  where  I'm  going  to,  and  wot  I'm  goin  to  do? 

Barbara.  Yes:  youre  going  to  heaven;  and  youre 
coming  back  here  before  the  week's  out  to  tell  me  so. 

Bill.  You  lie.  I'm  goin  to  Kennintahn,  to  spit  in 
Todger  Fairmile's  eye.  I  bashed  Jenny  Ill's  face;  and 
now  I'll  get  me  own  face  bashed  and  come  back  and 
shew  it  to  er.  E'll  it  me  ardern  I  it  e  r.  Thatll  make 
us  square.  {To  Adolphus.)  Is  that  fair  or  is  it  not? 
Youre  a  genlmn:  you  oughter  know. 

Barbara.  Two  black  eyes  wont  make  one  white  one, 
Bill. 

Bill.  I  didnt  ast  you.  Cawnt  you  never  keep  your 
mahth  shut?     I  ast  the  genlmn. 

CusiNS  {reflectively).  Yes:  I  think  youre  right,  Mr. 
Walker.  Yes:  I  should  do  it.  Its  curious:  its  exactly 
what  'an  ancient  Greek  would  have  done. 

Barbara.     But  what  good  will  it  do? 

CusiNs.  Well,  it  will  give  Mr.  Fair  mile  some  exer- 
cise; and  it  will  satisfy  Mr.  Walker's  soul. 

Bill.  Rot!  there  aint  no  sach  a  thing  as  a  soul.  Ah 
kin  you  tell  wether  Ive  a  soul  or  not?     You  never  seen  it. 

Barbara.  Ive  seen  it  hurting  you  when  you  went 
against  it. 

Bill  {with  compressed  aggravation).  If  you  was  my 
girl  and  took  the  word  out  o  me  mahth  lawk  thet,  I'd 
give  you  suthink  youd  feel  urtin,  so  I  would.  {To 
Adolphus.)     You  take  my  tip,  mate.     Stop  er  jawr;  or 


246  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

youll  die  afore  your  time.  (With  intense  expression.) 
Wore  aht :  thets  wot  joull  be :  wore  aht.  {He  goes  away 
through  the  gate.) 

Cusixs  (looking  after  him).     I  wonder! 

Barbara.  DoUy !  (indignant,  in  her  mother's  man- 
ner.) 

CusiNs.  YeSj  my  dear,  it's  very  wearing  to  be  in 
love  with  you.  If  it  lasts,  I  quite  think  I  shall  die 
young. 

Barbara.     Should  you  mind? 

CfsiNs.  Not  at  all.  (He  is  suddenly  softened,  and 
kisses  her  over  the  drum,  evidently  not  for  the  first  time, 
as  people  cannot  kiss  over  a  big  drum  rvithout  practice. 
Undershaft  coughs.) 

Barbara.  It's  all  right,  papa,  weve  not  forgotten 
you.  Dolly:  explain  the  place  to  papa:  I  ha^-nt  time. 
(She  goes  busily  into  the  shelter.) 

Under&haft  and  Adolphus  now  have  the  yard  to  them- 
selves. Undershaft,  seated  on  a  form,  and  still  keenly 
attentive,  looks  hard  at  Adolphus.  Adolphus  looks  hard 
at  him. 

UxDERSHAFT.  I  fancy  you  guess  something  of  what 
is  in  my  mind,  Mr.  Cusins.  (Cusins  flourishes  his  drum- 
sticks as  if  in  the  act  of  beating  a  lively  rataplan,  but 
makes  no  sound.)  Exactly  so.  But  suppose  Barbara 
finds  you  out! 

Cusins.  You  know,  I  do  not  admit  that  I  am  im- 
posing on  Barbara.  I  am  quite  genuinely  interested  in 
the  views  of  the  Salvation  Army.  The  fact  is,  I  am  a 
sort  of  collector  of  religions;  and  the  curious  thing  is 
that  I  find  I  can  believe  them  all.  By  the  way,  have 
you  any  religion? 

Undershaft.     Yes. 

Cusins.     Anything  out  of  the  common? 

Undershaft.  Only  that  there  are  two  things  neces- 
sary to  Salvation. 

Cusins    (disappointed,  but  polite).     Ah,  the  Church 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  247 

Catechism.  Charles  Lomax  also  belongs  to  the  Estab- 
lished Church. 

Undershaft.     The  two  things  are — 

CusiNs.     Baptism  and — 

Undershaft.     No.     Money  and  gunpowder. 

CusiNs  {surprised,  hut  interested).  That  is  the  gen- 
eral opinion  of  our  governing  classes.  The  novelty  is  in 
hearing  any  man  confess  it. 

Undershaft.     Just  so. 

CusiNs.  Excuse  me:  is  there  any  place  in  your  re- 
ligion for  honor,  j  ustice,  truth,  love,  mercy  and  so  forth  ? 

Undershaft.  Yes:  they  are  the  graces  and  luxuries 
oi-  a  rich,  stx'ong,  and  safe  life. 

CusiNs.  Suppose  one  is  forced  to  choose  between 
them  and  money  or  gunpowder.^ 

Undershaft.  Choose  money  and  gunpowder;  for 
•without  enough  of  both  you  cannot  afford  the  others. 

CusiNs.     That  is  your  religion.'' 

Undershaft.     Yes. 

The  cadence  of  this  reply  makes  a  fidl  close  in  the 
conversation.  Cusins  ttvists  his  face  dubiously  and  con- 
templates  Undershaft.      Undershaft  contemplates   him. 

CusiNs.  Barbara  wont  stand  that.  You  will  have  to 
choose  between  your  religion  and  Barbara. 

Undershaft.  So  will  you,  my  friend.  She  will  find 
out  that  that  drum  of  yours  is  hollow. 

Cusins.  Father  Undershaft:  you  are  mistaken:  I  am 
a  sincere  Salvationist.  You  do  not  understand  the  Sal- 
vation Array.  It  is  the  army  of  joy,  of  love,  of  cour- 
age: it  has  banished  the  fear  and  remorse  and  despair 
of  the  old  hell-ridden  evangelical  sects:  it  marches  to 
fight  the  devil  with  trumpet  and  drum,  with  music  and 
dancing,  with  banner  and  palm,  as  becomes  a  sally  from 
heaven  by  its  happy  garrison.  It  picks  the  waster  out 
of  the  public  house  and  makes  a  man  of  him:  it  finds 
a  worm  wriggling  in  a  back  kitchen,  and  lo !  a  woman ! 
Men  and  women  of  rank  too,  sons  and  daughters  of  the 


248  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Highest.      It  takes   the   poor   professor   of   Greeks   the 
most  artificial  and  self-suppressed  of  human  creatures, 
from  his   meal   of   roots,   and  lets   loose  the  rhapsodist 
in  him;  reveals  the  true  worship  of  Dionysos  to  him; 
sends  him  down  the  public  street  drumming  dithyrambs 
(/le  plays  a  thundering  flourish  on  the  drum). 
Undershaft.     You  will  alarm  the  shelter. 
CusiNs.      Oh,  they   are   accustomed   to  these   sudden 
ecstasies  of  piety.     However,  if  the  drum  worries  you — 
(he   pockets    the    drumsticks;    unhooks    the    drum;   and 
stands  it  on  the  ground  opposite  the  gatervay). 
Undershaft.     Thank  you. 

CusiNS.      You   remember   what   Euripides   says   about 
your  money  and  gunpowder.'' 
Undershaft.     No. 
CusiNs  (declaiming). 

One  and  another 
In  money  and  guns  may  outpass  his  brother ; 
And  men  in  their  millions  float  and  flow 
And  seethe  with  a  million  hopes  as  leaven  ; 
And  they  win  their  will ;  or  they  miss  iheir  will ; 
And  their  hopes  are  dead  or  are  pined  for  still ; 
But  whoe'er  can  know 
As  the  long  days  go 
That  to  live  is  happy,  has  found  h  i  s  heaven. 

My  translation:  what  do  you  think  of  it? 

Undershaft.  I  think,  my  friend,  that  if  you  wish 
to  know,  as  the  long  days  go,  that  to  live  is  happy, 
you  must  first  acquire  money  enough  for  a  decent  life, 
and  power  enough  to  be  your  own  master. 

CusiNS.  You  are  damnably  discouraging.  (He  re- 
sumes his  declamation.) 

Is  it  so  hard  a  thing  to  see 
That  the  spirit  of  God— whate'er  it  be— 
The  Law  that  abides  and  changes  not,  ages  long,         , 
The  Eternal  and  Nature-born  :  these  things  be  strong? 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  249 

What  else  is  Wisdom  ?    What  of  Man's  endeavor. 
Or  God's  high  grace  so  lovely  and  so  great  ? 
To  stand  from  fear  set  free  ?  to  breathe  and  wait  ? 
To  hold  a  hand  uplifted  over  Fate  ? 
And  shall  not  Barbara  be  loved  for  ever  ? 


Undershaft.     Euripides  mentions  Barbara^  does  he? 

CusiNS.  It  is  a  fair  translation.  The  word  means 
Loveliness. 

Undershaft.  May  I  ^ask — as  Barbara's  father — how 
much  a  year  she  is  to  be  loved  for-ever  on.^ 

CusiNS.  As  Barbara's  father,  that  is  more  your  affair 
than  mine.  I  can  feed  her  by  teaching  Greek:  that  is 
about  all. 

Undershaft.  Do  you  consider  it  a  good  match  for 
her? 

CusiNS  (with  polite  obstinacy).  Mr.  Undershaft:  I 
am  in  many  ways  a  weak,  timid,  ineffectual  person;  and 
my  health  is  far  from  satisfactory.  But  whenever  I  feel 
that  I  must  have  anything,  I  get  it,  sooner  or  later.  I 
feel  that  way  about  Barbara.  I  dont  like  marriage: 
I  feel  intensely  afraid  of  it;  and  I  dont  know  what  I 
shall  do  with  Barbara  or  what  she  will  do  with  me. 
B.ut  I  feel  that  I  and  nobody  else  must  marry  her. 
Please  regard  that  as  settled. — Not  that  I  wish  to  be 
arbitrdry;  but  why  should  I  waste  your  time  in  discuss- 
ing what  is  inevitable? 

Undershaft.  You  mean  that  you  will  stick  at  noth- 
ing: not  even  the  conversion  of  the  Salvation  Army  to 
the  worship  of  Dionysos. 

CusiNs.  The  business  of  the  Salvation  Army  is  to 
save,  not  to  wrangle  about  the  name  of  the  pathfinder. 
Dionysos  or  another:  what  does  it  matter? 

Undershaft  (rising  and  approaching  him).  Pro- 
fessor Cusins:  you  are  a  young  man  after  my  own 
heart. 

CusiNS.      Mr.  Undershaft:  you  are,  as  far  as   I  am 


250  Major  Barbara  Act  It 

able  to  gather,  a  most  infernal  old  rascal;  but  you  appeal 
very  strongly  to  mj'^  sense  of  ironic  humor. 

Undershaft  mutely  offers  his  hand.     They  shake. 

Undershaft  (suddenly  concentrating  himself).  And 
now  to  business. 

CusiNs.  Pardon  me.  We  were  discussing  religion.; 
Why  go  back  to  such  an  uninteresting  and  unimportant 
subject  as  business? 

Undershaft.  Religion  is  our  business  at  present, 
because  it  is  through  religion  alone  that  we  can  win 
Barbara. 

CusiNs.     Have  you,  too,  fallen  in  love  with  Barbara? 

Undershaft.     Yes,  with  a  father's  love. 

CusiNS.  A  father's  love  for  a  grown-up  daughter  is 
the  most  dangerous  of  all  infatuations.  I  apologize  for 
mentioning  my  own  pale,  coy,  mistrustful  fancy  in  the 
same  breath  with  it. 

Undershaft.  Keep  to  the  point.  We  have  to  win 
her;  and  we  are  neither  of  us  Methodists. 

CusiNS.  That  doesnt  matter.  The  power  Barbara 
wields  here — the  power  that  wields  Barbara  herself — is 
not  Calvinism,  not  Presbyterianism,  not  Methodism — 

Undershaft.      Not  Greek  Paganism  either,  eh? 

CusiNS.  I  admit  that.  Barbara  is  quite  original  in 
her  religion. 

UsDERsu AFT  (triumphantly).  Aha!  Barbara  Under- 
shaft would  be.  Her  inspiration  comes  from  within 
herself. 

CusiNS.     How  do  you  suppose  it  got  there? 

Undershaft  (in  torvering  excitement) .  It  is  the  Un- 
dershaft inheritance.  I  shall  hand  on  my  torch  to  my 
daughter.  She  shall  make  my  converts  and  preach  my 
gospel — 

CusiNS.     What !     Money  and  gunpowder  ! 

Undershaft.  Yes,  money  and  gunpowder;  free- 
dom and  power;  command  of  life  and  command  of 
death. 


Act"  II  Major  Barbara  251 

CusiNs  {urbanely:  trying  to  bring  him  down  to  earth). 
This    is    extremely    interesting,    Mr.    Undershaft.     Of 
course  you  know  that  you  are  mad. 
'  Undershaft  (rvith  redoubled  force).     And  you? 

CusiNs.  Oh,  mad  as  a  hatter.  You  are  welcome  to 
my  secret  since  I  have  discovered  yours.  But  I  am 
astonished.     Can  a  madman  make  cannons .'' 

Undershaft.  Would  anyone  else  than  a  madman 
make  them.''  And  now  (ivith  surging  energy)  question 
for  question.     Can  a  sane  man  translate  Euripides.'' 

CusiNs.     No. 

Undershaft  (seizing  him  by  the  shoulder).  Can  a 
sane  woman  make  a  man  of  a  waster  or  a  woman  of  a 
worm.'' 

CusiNs  (reeling  before  the  storm).  Father  Colossus 
— Mammoth  Millionaire — 

Undershaft  (pressing  him).  Are  there  two  mad 
people  or  three  in  this  Salvation  shelter  to-day.? 

CusiNs.     You  mean  Barbara  is  as  mad  as  we  are ! 

Undershaft  (pushing  him  lightly  off  and  resuming 
his  equanimity  suddenly  and  completely).  Pooh,  Pro- 
fessor !  let  us  call  things  by  their  proper  names.  J_  am 
a  millionaire;  you  are  a  poet;  Barbara  is  a  savior  of 
souls.  What  have  we  three  to  do  with  the  common  mob 
of  slaves  and  idolaters.''  (He  sits  down  again  with  a 
shrug  of  contempt  for  the  mob.) 

CusiNS.  Take  care !  Barbara  is  in  love  with  the 
common  people.  So  am  I.  Have  you  never  felt  the 
romance  of  that  love? 

Undershaft  (cold  and  sardonic).  Have  you  ever 
been  in  love  with  Povert}^,  like  St.  Francis?  Have  you 
ever  been  in  love  with  Dirt,  like  St.  Simeon?  Have  you 
ever  been  in  love  with  disease  and  suffering,  like  our 
nurses  and  philanthropists?  Such  passions  are  not  vir- 
tues, but  the  most  unnatural  of  all  the  vices.  This  love 
of  the  common  people  may  please  an  earl's  grand- 
daughter and  a  university  professor;  but  I  have  been  a 


252  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

common  man  and  a  poor  man;  and  it  has  no  romance  for 
me.  Leave  it  to  the  poor  to  pretend  that  poverty  is  a 
blessing:  leave  it  to  the  coward  to  make  a  religion  of 
his  cowardice  by  preaching  humility:  we  know  better 
than  that.  We  three  must  stand  together  above  the 
common  people:  how  else  can  we  help  their  children  to 
climb  up  beside  us  ?  Barbara  must  belong  to  us,  not 
to  the  Salvation  Army. 

CusiNS.  Well,  I  can  only  say  that  if  you  think  you 
will  get  her  away  from  the  Salvation  Army  by  talking 
to  her  as  you  have  been  talking  to  me,  you  dont  know 
Barbara. 

Undershaft.  My  friend:  I  never  ask  for  what  I 
can  buy. 

CusiNs  (in  a  white  fury).  Do  I  understand  you  to 
imply  that  you  can  buy  Barbara? 

Undershaft.     No ;  but  I  can  buy  the  Salvation  Army. 

CusiNs.     Quite  impossible. 

Undershaft.  You  shall  see.  All  religious  organiza- 
tions exist  by  selling  themselves  to  the  rich. 

CusiNs.  Not  the  Army.  That  is  the  Church  of  the 
poor. 

Undershaft.     All  the  more  reason  for  buying  it. 

CusiNs.  I  dont  think  you  quite  know  what  the  Army 
does  for  the  poor. 

Undershaft.  Oh  yes  I  do.  It  draws  their  teeth: 
that  is  enough  for  me— as  a  man  of  business — 

Cusins.     Nonsense.     It  makes  them  sober — 

Undershaft.  I  prefer  sober  workmen.  The  profits 
are  larger. 

CusiNS.     — honest — 

Undershaft.  Honest  workmen  are  the  most  eco- 
nomical. 

CusiNs.     — attached  to  their  homes — 

Undershaft.  So  much  the  better:  they  will  put  up 
with  anything  sooner  than  change  their  shop. 

Cusins.     — happy — 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  253 

Undershaft.  An  invaluable  safeguard  against  revo- 
lution. 

CusiNs.     — unselfish — 

Undershaft.  Indifferent  to  their  own  interests, 
which  suits  me  exactly. 

CcsiNs.     — with  their  thoughts  on  heavenly  things — 

Undershaft  (rising).  And  not  on  Trade  Unionism 
nor  Socialism.     Excellent. 

CusiNs  {revolted).  You  really  are  an  infernal  old 
rascal. 

Undershaft  (indicating  Peter  Shirley,  rvho  has  just 
come  from  the  shelter  and  strolled  dejectedly  down  the 
yard  between  th em). ^  And  this  is  an  honest  man! 

Shirley.  Yes;  and  what  av  I  got  by  it.''  (he  passes 
on  bitterly  and  sits  on  the  form,  in  the  corner  of  the 
penthouse). 

Snobby  Price,  beaming  sanctimoniously,  and  Jenny 
Hill,  rvith  a  tambourine  full  of  coppers,  come  from  the 
shelter  and  go  to  the  drum,  on  which  Jenny  begins  ta 
count  the  money. 

Undershaft  (replying  to  Shirley).  Oh,  your  em- 
ployers must  have  got  a  good  deal  by  it  from  first  to 
last.  (He  sits  on  the  table,  with  one  foot  on  the  side 
form.  Cusins,  overrvhelmed,  sits  down  on  the  same  form 
nearer  the  shelter.  Barbara  comes  from  the  shelter  to 
the  middle  of  the  yard.  She  is  excited  and  a  little  over- 
ivrought.) 

Barbara.  Weve  just  had  a  splendid  experience  meet- 
ing at  the  other  gate  in  Cripps's  lane.  Ive  hardly  ever 
seen  them  so  much  moved  as  they  were  by  your  con- 
fession, Mr.  Price. 

Price.  I  could  almost  be  glad  of  my  past  wickedness 
if  I  could  believe  that  it  would  elp  to  keep  bathers 
stright. 

Barbara.     So  it  will,  Snobby.     How  much,  Jenny? 

Jen'ny.     Four  and  tenpence.  Major. 

Barbara.     Oh  Snobby,  if  you  had  given  your  poor 


254  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

motlier  just  one  more  kick,  we  should  have  got  the  whole 
five  shillings ! 

Price.  If  she  heard  you  say  that,  miss,  she'd  be  sorry 
I  didnt.  But  I'm  glad.  Oh  what  a  joy  it  will  be  to 
her  when  she  hears  I'm  saved! 

Undershaft.  Shall  I  contribute  the  odd  twopence, 
Barbara?  The  millionaire's  mite,  eh?  {He  takes  a 
couple  of  pennies  from  his  pocket.) 

Barbara.     How  did  you  make  that  twopence? 

Undershaft.  As  usual.  By  selling  cannons,  tor- 
pedoes, submarines,  and  my  new  patent  Grand  Duke 
hand  grenade. 

Barbara.  Put  it  back  in  your  pocket.  You  cant  buy 
your  Salvation  here  for  twopence:  you  must  work  it  out. 

Undershaft.  Is  twopence  not  enough  ?  I  can  afford 
a  little  more,  if  you  press  me. 

Barbara.  Two  million  millions  would  not  be  enough. 
There  is  bad  blood  on  your  hands;  and  nothing  but  good 
blood  can  cleanse  them.  Money  is  no  use.  Take  it 
away.  (She  turns  to  Cusins.)  Dolly:  you  must  write 
another  letter  for  me  to  the  papers.  (He  makes  a  wry 
face.)  Yes:  I  know  you  dont  like  it;  but  it  must  be 
done.  The  starvation  this  winter  is  beating  us:  every- 
body is  imemployed.  The  General  says  we  must  close 
this  shelter  if  we  cant  get  more  money.  I  force  the 
collections  at  the  meetings  imtil  I  am  ashamed:  dont  I, 
Snobby  ? 

Price.  It's  a  fair  treat  to  see  you  work  it,  Miss.  The 
way  you  got  them  up  from  three-and-six  to  four-and-ten 
with  that  hymn,  penny  by  penny  and  verse  by  verse, 
was  a  caution.  Not  a  Cheap  Jack  on  Mile  End  Waste 
could  touch  you  at  it. 

Barbara.  Yes ;  but  I  wish  we  could  do  without  it.  I 
am  getting  at  last  to  think  more  of  the  collection  than 
of  the  people's  souls.  And  what  are  those  hatfuls  of 
pence  and  halfpence  ?  We  want  thousands !  tens  of 
thousands !  himdreds  of  thousands !     I  want  to  convert 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  255 

people^  not  to  be  always  begging  for  the  Army  in  a  way 
J'd  die  sooner  than  beg  for  myself. 

Undershaft  (in  profound  irony).  Genuine  unselfish- 
ness is  capable  of  anything,  my  dear. 

Barbara  {unsuspectingly ,  as  she  turns  away  to  take 
the  money  from  the  drum  and  put  it  in  a  cash  bag  she 
carries).  Yes,  isnt  it.''  (Undershaft  looks  sardonically 
at  Cusins.) 

CusiNs  (aside  to  Undershaft).  Mephistopheles !  Ma- 
chiavelli ! 

Barbara  (tears  coming  into  her  eyes  as  she  ties  the 
hag  and  pockets  it).  How  are  we  to  feed  them?  I  cant 
talk  religion  to  a  man  with  bodily  hunger  in  his  eyes. 
(Almost  breaking  down.)     It's  frightful. 

Jenny  (running  to  her).     Major,  dear — 

Barbara  (rebounding).  No,  dont  comfort  me.  It 
will  be  all  right.     We  shall  get  the  money. 

Undershaft.     How.'' 

Jenny.  By  praying  for  it,  of  course.  Mrs.  Baines 
says  she  prayed  for  it  last  night;  and  she  has  never 
prayed  for  it  in  vain:  never  once.  (She  goes  to  the  gate 
and  looks  out  into  the  street.) 

Barbara  (who  has  dried  her  eyes  and  regained  her 
composure).  By  the  way,  dad,  Mrs.  Baines  has  come 
to  march  with  us  to  our  big  meeting  this  afternoon;  and 
she  is  very  anxious  to  meet  you,  for  some  reason  or 
other.     Perhaps  she'll  convert  you. 

Undershaft.     I  shall  be  delighted,  my  dear. 

Jenny  (at  the  gate:  excitedly).  Major!  Major! 
heres  that  man  back  again. 

Barbara.     What  man.'' 

Jenny,  The  man  that  hit  me.  Oh,  I  hope  hes  com- 
ing back  to  join  us. 

Bill  Walker,  with  frost  on  his  jacket,  comes  through 
the  gate,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  his  chin  sunk 
between  his  shoulders,  like  a  cleaned-out  gambler.  He 
halts  between  Barbara  and  the  drum. 


256  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Barbara.     Hullo,  Bill!     Back  already! 

Bill  {nagging  at  her).  Bin  talkin  ever  sence,  av 
you? 

Barbara.  Pretty  nearly.  Well,  has  Todger  paid  you 
out  for  poor  Jenny's  jaw.'* 

Bill.     No  he  aint. 

Barbara.     I  thought  your  jacket  looked  a  bit  snowy. 

Bill.  So  it  is  snowy.  You  want  to  know  where  the 
snow  come  from,  dont  you.'' 

Barbara.     Yes. 

Bill.  Well,  it  come  from  off  the  ground  in  Parkinses 
Corner  in  Kennintahn.  It  got  rubbed  off  be  my  shoul- 
ders: see? 

Barbara.  Pity  you  didnt  rub  some  off  with  your 
knees.  Bill!     That  would  have  done  you  a  lot  of  good. 

Bill  {with  sour  mirthless  humor).  I  was  saving  an- 
other man's  knees  at  the  time.  E  was  kneelin  on  my 
ed,  so  e  was. 

Jenny.     AMio  was  kneeling  on  your  head? 

Bill.  Todger  was.  E  was  prayin  for  me:  prayin 
comfortable  with  me  as  a  carpet.  So  was  Mog.  So 
was  the  ole  bloomin  meetin.  Mog  she  sez  "  O  Lord 
break  is  stubborn  spirit;  but  dont  urt  is  dear  art."  That 
was  wot  she  said.  "  Dont  urt  is  dear  art  " !  An  er 
bloke — thirteen  stun  four! — kneelin  wiv  all  is  weight  on 
me.     Funny,  aint  it? 

Jenny.     Oh  no.     We're  so  sorry,  Mr.  Walker. 

Barbara  {enjoying  it  frankly).  Nonsense!  of  course 
it's  funny.  Served  you  right.  Bill!  You  must  have 
done  something  to  him  first. 

Bill  {doggedly).  I  did  wot  I  said  I'd  do.  I  spit  in 
is  eye.  E  looks  up  at  the  sky  and  sez,  "  O  that  I  should 
be  f ahnd  worthy  to  be  spit  upon  for  the  gospel's  sake !  " 
e  sez;  an  Mog  sez  "Glory  AUelloolier !  " ;  and  then  e 
called  me  Brother,  an  dahned  me  as  if  I  was  a  kid  and 
e  was  me  mother  washin  me  a  Setterda  nawt.  I  adnt 
just  no  show  wiv  im  at  all.     Arf  the  street  prayed;  an 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  257 

the  tother  arf  larfed  fit  to  split  theirselves.  (To  Bar- 
bara.)    There!  are  you  settisfawd  nah? 

Barbara  (her  eyes  dancing).  Wish  I'd  been  there, 
Bill. 

Bill.  Yes:  youd  a  got  in  a  hextra  bit  o  talk  on  me, 
wouldnt  you? 

Jenny.     I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Walker. 

Bill  (fiercely).  Dont  you  go  bein  sorry  for  me: 
youve  no  call.     Listen  ere.     I  broke  your  jawr. 

Jenny.  No,  it  didnt  hurt  me:  indeed  it  didnt,  except 
for  a  moment.     It  was  only  that  I  was  frightened. 

Bill.  I  dont  want  to  be  forgive  be  you,  or  be  enny- 
body.  Wot  I  did  I'll  pay  for.  I  tried  to  get  me  own 
jawr  broke  to  settisfaw  you — 

Jenny  (distressed).     Oh  no — 

Bill  (impatiently) .  Tell  y'l  did:  cawnt  you  listen  to 
wots  bein  told  you?  All  I  got  be  it  was  bein  made  a 
sight  of  in  the  public  street  for  me  pains.  Well,  if  I 
cawnt  settisfaw  you  one  way,  I  can  another.  Listen 
ere!  I  ad  two  quid  saved  agen  the  frost;  an  Ive  a 
pahnd  of  it  left.  A  mate  o  mine  last  week  ad  words 
with  the  judy  e's  goin  to  marry.  E  give  er  wot- for; 
an  e's  bin  fined  fifteen  bob.  E  ad  a  right  to  it  er 
because  they  was  goin  to  be  marrid;  but  I  adnt  no 
right  to  it  you;  so  put  anather  fawv  bob  on  an  call  it  a 
pahnd's  worth.  (lie  produces  a  sovereign.)  Eres  the 
money.  Take  it;  and  lets  av  no  more  o  your  forgivin 
an  pray  in  and  your  Major  jawrin  me.  Let  wot  I  done 
be  done  and  paid  for;  and  let  there  be  a  end  of  it. 

Jenny.  Oh,  I  couldnt  take  it,  Mr.  Walker.  But  if 
you  would  give  a  shilling  or  two  to  poor  Rummy 
Mitchens !  you  really  did  hurt  her ;  and  shes  old. 

Bill  (contemptuously).  Not  likely.  I'd  give  her 
anather  as  soon  as  look  at  er.  Let  her  av  the  lawr  o 
me  as  she  threatened  !  She  aint  forgiven  me :  not  mach. 
Wot  I  done  to  er  is  not  on  me  mawnd — wot  she  (indi- 
cating Barbara)  might  call  on  me  conscience — no  more 


258  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

than  stickin  a  pig.  It's  this  Christian  game  o  yours  that 
I  wont  av  played  agen  me:  this  bloomin  forgivin  an 
naggin  an  jawrin  that  makes  a  man  that  sore  that  iz 
lawf's  a  burdn  to  im.  I  wont  av  it,  I  tell  you;  so  take 
your  money  and  stop  throwin  your  silly  bashed  face  hup 
agen  me. 

Jenny.  Major:  may  I  take  a  little  of  it  for  the 
Army  ? 

Barbara.  No:  the  Army  is  not  to  be  bought.  We 
want  your  soul,  Bill;  and  we'll  take  nothing  less. 

Bill  (bitterly).  I  know.  It  aint  enough.  Me  an 
me  few  shillins  is  not  good  enough  for  you.  Youre  a 
earl's  grendorter,  you  are.  Nothin  less  than  a  underd 
pahnd  for  you. 

Undershaft.  Come,  Barbara !  you  could  do  a  great 
deal  of  good  with  a  hundred  pounds.  If  you  will  set 
this  gentleman's  mind  at  ease  by  taking  his  pomid,  I 
will  give  the  other  ninety-nine.  (Bill,  astounded  by 
such  opulence,  instinctively  touches  his  cap.) 

Barbara.  Oh,  youre  too  extravagant,  papa.  Bill 
offers  twenty  pieces  of  silver.  All  you  need  offer  is 
the  other  ten.  That  will  make  the  standard  price  to 
buy  anybody  who's  for  sale.  I'm  not;  and  the  Army's 
not.  (To  Bill.)  Youll  never  have  another  quiet  mo- 
ment. Bill,  until  you  come  round  to  us.  You  cant  stand 
out  against  your  salvation. 

Bill  (sullenly).  1  cawnt  stend  aht  agen  music-all 
wrastlers  and  artful  tongued  women.  Ive  offered  to 
pay.  I  can  do  no  more.  Take  it  or  leave  it.  There 
it  is.  (He  throws  the  sovereign  on  the  drum,  and  sits 
down  on  the  horse-trough.  The  coin  fascinates  Snobby 
Price,  who  takes  an  early  opportunity  of  dropping  his 
cap  on  it.) 

Mrs.  Baines  comes  from  the  shelter.  She  is  dressed 
as  a  Salvation  Army  Commissioner.  She  is  an  earnest 
looking  woman  of-  about  40,  with  a  caressing,  urgent 
voice,  and  an  appealing  manner. 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  259 

Barbara.  This  is  my  father,  Mrs.  Baines.  (JJnder- 
shaft  comes  from  the  table,  taking  his  hat  off  with 
marked  civility.)  Try  what  you  can  do  with  him.  He 
wont  listen  to  me,  because  he  remembers  what  a  fool  I 
was  when  I  was  a  baby.  (She  leaves  them  together 
and  chats  with  Jenny.) 

Mrs.  Baines.  Have  you  been  shewn  over  the  shelter, 
Mr.  Undershaft?  You  know  the  work  we're  doing,  of 
course. 

Undershaft  (very  civilly).  The  whole  nation  knows 
it,  Mrs.  Baines. 

Mrs.  Baines.  No,  sir:  the  whole  nation  does  not 
know  it,  or  we  should  not  be  crippled  as  we  are  for 
want  of  money  to  carry  our  work  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land.  Let  me  tell  you  that  there 
would  have  been  rioting  this  winter  in  London  but  for  us. 

Undershaft,     You  really  think  so.'' 

Mrs.  Baines.  I  know  it.  I  remember  1886,  when 
you  rich  gentlemen  hardened  your  hearts  against  the 
cry  of  the  poor.  They  broke  the  windows  of  your  clubs 
in  Pall  Mall. 

Undershaft  (gleaming  with  approval  of  their 
method).  And  the  Mansion  House  Fund  went  up  next 
day  from  thirty  thousand  pounds  to  seventy-nine  thou- 
sand!    I  remember  quite  well. 

Mrs.  Baines.  Well,  wont-  you  help  me  to  get  at  the 
people."*  They  wont  break  windows  then.  Come  here. 
Price.  Let  me  shew  you  to  this  gentleman  (Price  comes  to 
he  inspected) .     Do  you  remember  the  window  breaking? 

Price.  My  ole  father  thought  it  was  the  revolution, 
maam. 

Mrs.  Baines.     Would  you  break  windows  now? 

Price.  Oh  no  maam.  The  windows  of  eaven  av  bin 
opened  to  me.  I  know  now  that  the  rich  man  is  a  sinner 
like  myself. 

RuMMV  (appearing  above  at  the  loft  door).  Snobby 
Price ! 


260  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Snobby,     Wot  is  it? 

Rummy.  Your  mother's  askin  for  you  at  the  other 
gate  in  Crippses  Lane.  She's  heard  about  your  confes- 
sion (Price  turns  pale). 

Mrs.  Baines.     Go,  Mr.  Price;  and  pray  with  her. 

Jenny.    You  can  go  through  the  shelter.  Snobby. 

Price  (to  Mrs.  Baines).  I  couldnt  face  her  now, 
maam,  with  all  the  weight  of  my  sins  fresh  on  me.  Tell 
her  she'll  find  her  son  at  ome,  waitin  for  her  in  prayer. 
(He  skulks  off  through  the  gate,  incidentally  stealing 
the  sovereign  on  his  way  out  by  picking  up  his  cap  from 
the  drum.) 

Mrs.  Baines  (with  swimming  eyes).  You  see  how 
we  take  the  anger  and  the  bitterness  against  you  out 
of  their  hearts,  Mr.  Undershaft. 

Undershaft.  It  is  certainly  most  convenient  and 
gratifying  to  all  large  employers  of  labor,  Mrs.  Baines. 

Mrs.  Baines.  Barbara:  Jenny:  I  have  good  news: 
most  wonderful  news.  (Jenny  runs  to  her.)  My  prayers 
have  been  answered.  I  told  you  they  would,  Jenny, 
didn't  I? 

Jenny.     YeSj  yes. 

Barbara  (m.oving  nearer  to  the  drum).  Have  we  got 
money  enough  to  keep  the  shelter  open? 

Mrs.  Baines.  I  hope  we  shall  have  enough  to  keep 
all  the  shelters  open.  Lord  Saxmundham  has  promised 
us  five  thousand  pounds — 

Barbara.     Hooray ! 

Jenny.     Glory ! 

Mrs.   Baines.     — if — 

Barbara.     "If!"     If  what? 

Mrs.  Baines.  — if  five  other  gentlemen  will  give  a 
thousand  each  to  make  it  up  to  ten  thousand. 

Barbara.  Who  is  Lord  Saxmundham?  I  never  heard 
of  him. 

Undershaft  (who  has  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the 
peer's  name,  and  is  now  ivatching  Barbara  curiously)* 


Act  n  Major  Barbara  261 

A  new  creation,  my  dear.  You  have  heard  of  Sir  Horace 
Bodger  ? 

Barbara.  Bodger!  Do  you  mean  the  distiller? 
Bodger's  whisky ! 

Undershaft.  That  is  the  man.  He  is  one  of  the 
greatest  of  our  public  benefactors.  He  restored  the 
cathedral  at  Hakington.  They  made  him  a  baronet  for 
that.  He  gave  half  a  million  to  the  funds  of  his  party: 
they  made  him  a  baron  for  that. 

Shirley.  What  will  they  give  him  for  the  five  thou- 
sand ? 

Undershaft.  There  is  nothing  left  to  give  him.  So 
the  five  thousand,  I  should  think,  is  to  save  his  soul. 

Mrs.  Baines.  Heaven  grant  it  may !  Oh  Mr.  Under- 
shaft, you  have  some  very  rich  friends.  Cant  you  help 
us  towards  the  other  five  thousand?  We  are  going  to 
hold  a  great  meeting  this  afternoon  at  the  Assembly 
Hall  in  the  Mile  End  Road.  If  I  could  only  announce 
that  one  gentleman  had  come  forward  to  support  Lord 
Saxmundham,  others  would  follow.  Dont  you  know 
somebody?  couldnt  you?  wouldnt  you?  (her  eyes  fill  with 
tears)  oh,  think  of  those  poor  people,  Mr.  Undershaft: 
think  of  how  much  it  means  to  them,  and  how  little  to 
a  great  man  like  you. 

Undershaft  {sardonically  gallant).  Mrs.  Baines: 
you  are  irresistible.  I  cant  disappoint  you;  and  I  cant 
deny  myself  the  satisfaction  of  making  Bodger  pay  up. 
You  shall  have  your  five  thousand  pounds. 

Mrs.  Baines.     Thank  God  ! 

Undershaft.     You  dont  thank  me? 

Mrs.  Baines.  Oh  sir,  dont  try  to  be  cynical :  dont  be 
ashamed  of  being  a  good  man.  The  Lord  will  bless  you 
abundantly;  and  our  prayers  will  be  like  a  strong  forti- 
fication round  you  all  the  days  of  your  life.  {With  a 
touch  of  caution.)  You  will  let  me  have  the  cheque  to 
shew  at  the  meeting,  wont  you?  Jenny:  go  in  and 
fetch  a  pen  and  ink.     {Jenny  runs  to  the  shelter  door.) 


262  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Undershaft.  Do  not  disturb  Miss  Hill:  I  have  a 
fountain  pen.  {Jenny  halts.  He  sits  at  the  table  and 
writes  the  cheque.  Cusins  rises  to  make  more  room  for 
him.     They  all  watch  him  silently.) 

Bill  (cynically,  aside  to  Barbara,  his  voice  and  accent 
horribly  debased).     Wot  jDrawce  Selvytion  nab? 

Barbara.  Stop.  (Undershaft  stops  writing:  they  all 
turn  to  her  in  surprise.)  Mrs.  Baines:  are  you  really 
going  to  take  this  money.'' 

Mrs.  Baines  (astonished).     Why  not,  dear.^ 

Barbara.  Why  not !  Do  you  know  what  my'  father 
is?  Have  you  forgotten  that  Lord  Saxmundham  is 
Bodger  the  whisky  man?  Do  you  remember  how  we 
implored  the  County  Council  to  stop  him  from  writing 
jBodger's  A^Tiisky  in  letters  of  fire  against  the  sky;  so 
that  the  poor  drink-ruined  creatures  on  the  embankment 
could  not  wake  up  from  their  snatches  of  sleep  without 
being  reminded  of  their  deadly  thirst  by  that  wicked 
sk}'  sign  ?  Do  you  know  that  the  worst  thing  I  have  had 
to  fight  here  is  not  the  devil,  but  Bodger,  Bodger, 
Bodger,  with  his  whisky,  his  distilleries,  and  his  tied 
houses?  Are  you  going  to  make  our  shelter  another, 
tied  house  for  him,  and  ask  me  to  keep  it? 

Bill.     Rotten  drunken  whisky  it  is  too, 

Mrs.  Baines.  Dear  Barbara:  Lord  Saxmundham  has 
a  soul  to  be  saved  like  any  of  us.  If  heaven  has  found 
the  way  to  make  a  good  use  of  his  money,  are  we  to  set 
ourselves  up  against  the  answer  to  our  prayers? 

Barbara.  I  know  he  has  a  soul  to  be  saved.  Let 
him  come  down  here;  and  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  him 
to  his  salvation.  But  he  wants  to  send  his  cheque  down 
to  buy  us,  and  go  on  being  as  wicked  as  ever. 

Undershaft  (with  a  reasonableness  which  Cusins 
alone  perceives  to  be  ironical).  My  dear  Barbara:  alco- 
hol is  a  very  necessary  article.     It  heals  the  sick— 

Barbara.     It  does  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Undershaft.     Well,  it  assists  the  doctor:  that  is  per- 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  263 

haps  a  less  questionable  way  of  putting  it.  It  makes 
life  bearable  to  millions  of  people  who  could  not  endure 
their  existence  if  they  were  quite  sober.  It  enables  Par- 
liament to  do  things  at  eleven  at  night  that  no  sane 
person  would  do  at  eleven  in  the  morning.  Is  it  Bodger's 
fault  that  this  inestimable  gift  is  deplorably  abused  by 
less  than  one  jjer  cent  of  the  poor.f*  (//e  turns  again  to 
the  table;  signs  the  cheque;  and  crosses  it.) 

Mrs.  Baines.  Barbara:  will  there  be  less  drinking 
or  more  if  all  those  poor  souls  we  are  saving  come  to- 
morrow and  find  the  doors  of  our  shelters  shut  in  their 
faces.''  Lord  Saxmundham  gives  us  the  money  to  stop 
drinking — to  take  his  own  business  from  him. 

CusiNs  (irnpishh/).  Pure  self-sacrifice  on  Bodger's 
part,  clearly!  Bless  dear  Bodger !  (Barbara  almost 
breaks  down  as  Adolphus,  too,  fails  her.) 

Undershaft  {tearing  out  the  cheque  and  pocketing 
the  book  as  he  rises  and  goes  past  Ciisins  to  Mrs.  Baines). 
I  also,  jNIrs.  Baines,  may  claim  a  little  disinterestedness. 
Think  of  my  business !  think  of  the  widows  and  orphans ! 
the  men  and  lads  torn  to  pieces  with  shrapnel  and 
poisoned  with  lyddite  (Mrs.  Baines  shrinks;  but  he  goes 
on  remorsely)  !  the  oceans  of  blood,  not  one  drop  of 
which  is  shed  in  a  really  just  cause!  the  ravaged  crops! 
the  peaceful  peasants  forced,  women  and  men,  to  till 
their  fields  under  the  fire  of  opposing  armies  on  \ta.in  of 
starvation!  the  bad  blood  of  the  fierce  little  cowards  at 
home  who  ^gg  on  others  to  fight  for  the  gratification  of 
their  national  vanity!  All  this  makes  money  for  me: 
I  am  never  richer,  never  busier  than  when  the  papers 
are  full  of  it.  Well,  it  is  your  work  to  preach  peace 
on  earth  and  goodwill  to  men.  (Mrs.  Baines's  face 
lights  up  again.)  Every  convert  you  make  is  a  vote 
against  war.  (Her  lips  move  in  prayer.)  Yet  I  give 
you  this  money  to  help  you  to  hasten  my  own  com- 
mercial ruin.      (He  gives  her  the  cheque.) 

CusiNs  (mounting  the  form  in  an  ecstasy  of  mischief). 


2G4  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

The  millennium  will  be  in<augurated  by  the  unselfish- 
ness of  Undershaft  and  Bodger.  Oh  be  joyful!  {He 
takes  the  drumsticks  from  his  pockets  and  flourishes 
them.) 

Mrs.  Baines  (taking  the  cheque).  The  longer  I  live 
the  more  proof  I  see  that  there  is  an  Infinite  Goodness 
that  turns  everything  to  the  work  of  salvation  sooner 
or  later.  Who  would  have  thought  that  any  good  could 
have  come  out  of  war  and  drink  .^  And  yet  their  profits 
are  brought  today  to  the  feet  of  salvation  to  do  its 
blessed  work.     (She  is  affected  to  tears.) 

Jenny  (^running  to  Mrs.  Baines  and  throwing  her 
arms  round  her).  Oh  dear!  how  blessed,  how  glorious 
it  all  is ! 

CusiNs  (in  a  convulsion  of  irony).  Let  us  seize  this 
unspeakable  moment.  Let  us  march  to  the  great  meet- 
ing at  once.  Excuse  me  just  an  instant.  {He  rushes 
into  the  shelter.  Jenny  takes  her  tambourine  from  the 
drum  head.) 

INIrs.  Baines.  Mr.  Undershaft:  have  you  ever  seen  a 
thousand  people  fall  on  their  knees  with  one  impulse 
and  pray?  Come  with  us  to  the  meeting.  Barbara  shall 
tell  them  that  the  Army  is  saved,  and  saved  through  you. 

CusiNs  (returning  impetuously  from  the  shelter  with 
a  flag  and  a  trombone,  and  coining  between  Mrs.  Baines 
and  Undershaft).  You  shall  carry  the  flag  down  the 
first  street,  Mrs.  Baines  (he  gives  her  the  flag).  Mr. 
Undershaft  is  a  gifted  trombonist:  he  shall  intone  an 
Olympian  diapason  to  the  West  Ham  Salvation  March. 
(Aside  to  Undershaft,  as  he  forces  the  trombone  on 
him.)     Blow,  Machiavelli,  blow. 

Undershaft  (aside  to  him,  as  he  takes  the  trombone). 
The  trumpet  in  Zicn !  (Cusins  rushes  to  the  drum,  which 
he  takes  up  and  puts  on.  Undershaft  continues,  aloud) 
I  will  do  my  best.  I  could  vamp  a  bass  if  I  knew  the 
tune. 

Cusins.     It  is  a  wedding  chorus  from  one  of  Doni- 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  265 

zetti's  operas;  but  we  have  converted  it.  We  _CQuyert 
everything  to  good  here,  including  Bodger.  You  re- 
member the  chorus.  "  For  thee  immense  rejoicing — 
immenso  giubilo — immenso  giubilo."  (With  drum  obbli- 
gato.)     Rum  tum  ti  tum  tum,  tum  turn  ti  ta — 

Barbara.     Dolly:  you  are  breaking  my  heart. 

CusiNS.  What  is  a  broken  heart  more  or  less  here? 
Dionysos  Undershaft  has  descended.     I  am  possessed. 

Mrs.  Baines.  Come,  Barbara:  I  must  have  my  dear 
Major  to  carry  the  flag  with  me. 

Jenny.     Yes,  yes,  Major  darling. 

CusiNs  (snatches  the  tambourhie  out  of  Jenny's  hand 
and  mutely  offers  it  to  Barbara). 

Barbara  (coming  forrvard  a  little  as  she  puts  the  offer 
behind  her  with  a  shudder,  whilst  Cusins  recklessly 
tosses  the  tambourine  back  to  Jenny  and  goes  to  the 
gate).     I  cant  come. 

Jenny.     Not  come ! 

Mrs.  Baines  (with  tears  in  her  eyes).  Barbara:  do 
you  think  I  am  wrong  to  take  the  mon'eiy? 

Barbara  (impulsively  going  to  her  and  kissing  her). 
No,  no:  God  help  you,  dear,  you  must:  you  are  saving 
the  Army.     Go ;  and  may  you  have  a  great  meeting ! 

Jenny.     But  arnt  you  coming? 

Barbara.  No.  (She  begins  taking  off  the  silver  S 
brooch  from  her  collar.) 

Mrs.  Baines.     Barbara  :what  are  you  doing? 

Jenny.  Why  are  you  taking  your  badge  oflf?  You 
cant  be  going  to  leave  us,  !Major. 

Barbara  (quietly).     Father:  come  here. 

Undershaft  (coming  to  her).  My  dear!  (Seeing 
that  she  is  going  to  pin  the  badge  on  his  collar,  he  re- 
treats to  the  penthouse  in- some  alarm.) 

Barbara  (following  him).  Dont  be  frightened. 
(She  pins  the  badge  on  and  steps  back  towards  the  table, 
shewing  him  to  the  others.)  .There!  It's  not  much  for 
£5000,  is  it? 


266  Major  Barbara  Act  II 

Mrs.  Baines.  Barbara:  if  you  wont  come  and  pray 
with  us^  promise  me  you  will  pray  for  us. 

Barbara.  I  cant  pray  now.  Perhaps  I  shall  never 
pray  again. 

Mrs.  Baines.     Barbara! 

Jenny.     Major! 

Barbara  (almost  delirious).  I  cant  bear  any  more. 
Quick  march! 

CusiNs  (calling  to  the  procession  in  the  street  out- 
side). Off  we  go.  Play  up,  there  !  Immenso  giu- 
b  i  1  o.  (He  gives  the  time  with  his  drum;  and  the 
band  strikes  up  the  march,  which  rapidly  becomes  more 
distant  as  the  procession  moves  briskly  away.) 

Mrs.  Baines.  I  must  go,  dear.  Youre  overworked: 
you  will  be  all  right  tomorrow.  We'll  never  lose  you. 
Now  Jenny:  step  out  with  the  old  flag.  Blood  and  Fire! 
(She  marches  out  through  the  gate  with  her  flag.) 

Jenny.  Glory  Hallelujah!  (flourishing  her  tam- 
bourine and  marching). 

Undershaft  (to  Cusins,  as  he  marches  out  past  him 
easing  the  slide  of  his  trombone).  "  My  ducats  and  my 
daughter  " ! 

CusiNs  (following  him  out).     Money  and  gunpowder! 

Barbara.  Drunkenness  and  Murder!  My  God: 
why  hast  thou  forsaken  me? 

She  sinks  on  the  form  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hayids.  The  march  passes  away  into  silence.  Bill  Walker 
steals  across  to  her. 

Bill  (taunting).    Wot  prawce  Sehytion  nah? 

Shirley.     Dont  you  hit  her  when  shes  down. 

Bill.  She  it  me  wen  aw  wiz  dahn.  Waw  shouldnt  I 
git  a  bit  o  me  own  back? 

Barbara  (raising  her  head).  I  didnt  take  your 
money,  Bill.  (She  crosses  the  yard  to  the  gate  and 
turns  her  back  on  the  two  men  to  hide  her  face  from 
them.) 

Bill   (sneering  after  her).     Naow,  it  warnt  enough 


Act  II  Major  Barbara  267 

for  you.  (Turning  to  the  drum,  he  misses  the  money.) 
Ellow !  If  you  aint  took  it  summun  else  az.  Weres  it 
gorn  ?     Blame  me  if  Jenny  111  didnt  take  it  arter  all ! 

Rummy  (screaming  at  him  from  tJie  loft).  You  lie, 
you  dirty  blackguard !  Snobby  Price  pinched  it  off  the 
drum  wen  e  took  ap  iz  cap.  I  was  ap  ere  all  the  time 
an  see  im  do  it. 

Bill.  Wot !  Stowl  maw  money !  Waw  didnt  you 
call  thief  on  him,  j'ou  silly  old  mucker  you? 

Rummy.  To  serve  you  aht  for  ittin  me  acrost  the  fice. 
It's  cost  y'pahnd,  that  az.  (Raising  a  pcean  of  squalid 
triumph.)  I  done  you.  I'm  even  with  you.  Ive  ad  it 
aht  o  y —  (Bill  snatches  up  Shirley's  mug  and  hurls 
it  at  her.  She  slams  the  loft  door  and  vanishes.  The 
mug  smashes  against  the  door  and  falls  in  fragments.) 

Bill  (beginning  to  chuckle).  Tell  us,  ole  man,  wot 
o'clock  this  morniia  was  it  wen  im  as  they  call  Snobby 
Prawce  was  sivei.^ 

Barbara  (turning  to  fhim  more  composedly ,  and  with 
unspoiled  sweetness).  About  half  past  twelve.  Bill. 
And  he  pinched  your  pound  at  a  quarter  to  two.  I  know. 
Well,  you  cant  afford  to  lose  it.     I'll  send  it  to  you. 

Bill  (his  voice  and  accent  suddenly  improving).  Not 
if  I  was  to  starve  for  it.     /  aint  to  be_bou^it. 

Shirley.  Aint  you.''  Youd  sell  yourself  to  the  devil 
for  a  pint  o  beer;  ony  there  aint  no  devil  to  make  the 
offer. 

Bill  (unshamed).  So  I  would,  mate,  and  often  av, 
cheerful.  But  she  cawnt  buy  me.  (Approaching  Bar- 
bara.) You  wanted  my  soul,  did  you.^  Well,  you  aint 
got  it. 

Barbara.  I  nearly  got  it.  Bill.  But  weve  sold  it  back 
to  you  for  ten  thousand  pounds.     . 

Shirley.     And  dear  at  the  money ! 

Barbara.     No,  Peter:  it  was  worth  more  than  money. 

Bill  (salvationproof).  It's  no  good:  you  cawnt  get 
rahnd  me  nah.     I  dont  blieve  in  it;  and  Ive  seen  today 


268  ^Mujor  Barbara  Act  II 

that  I  was  right.  (Going.)  So  long,  old  soupkitchener ! 
Ta,  ta,  Major  Earl's  Grendorter !  {Turning  at  the  gate.) 
Wot  prawce  Selvytion  nah  ?     Snobby  Prawce  !     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Barbara  {offering  her  hand).     Goodbye,  Bill. 

Bill  {taken  aback,  half  plucks  his  cap  off;  then  shoves 
it  on  again  defiantly).  Git  aht.  {Barbara  drops  her 
hand,  discouraged.  He  has  a  twinge  of  remorse.)  But 
thets  aw  rawt,  you  knaow.  Nathink  pasnl.  Naow 
mellice.     So  long,  Judy.     {He  goes.) 

Barbara.     No  malice.     So  long,  Bill. 

Shirley  {shaking  his  head).  You  make  too  much  of 
him.  Miss,  in  your  innocence. 

Barbara  {going  to  him).  Peter:  I'm  like  you  now. 
Cleaned  out,  and  lost  my  job. 

Shirley.  Youve  youth  an  hope.  Thats  two  better 
than  me. 

Barbara.  I'll  get  you  a  job,  Peter.  Thats  hope  for 
you:  the  youth  will  have  to  be  enough  for  me.  {She 
counts  her  money.)  I  have  just  enough  left  for  two 
teas  at  Lockharts,  a  Rowton  doss  for  you,  and  my  tram 
and  bus  home.  {He  frowns  and  rises  with  offended 
pride.  She  takes  his  arm.)  Dont  be  proud,  Peter:  it's 
sharing  between  friends.  And  promise  me  youll  talk  to 
me  and  not  let  me  cry.  {She  draws  him  towards  the 
gate.) 

Shirley.  Well,  I'm  not  accustomed  to  talk  to  the 
like  of  you — 

Barbara  {urgently).  Yes,  yes:  you  must  talk  to  me. 
Tell  me  about  Tom  Paine's  books  and  Bradlaugh's 
lectures.     Come  along. 

Shirley.  Ah,  if  you  would  only  read  Tom  Paine  in 
the  proper  spirit.  Miss!  {They  go  out  through  the  gate 
together.) 

END    OF    ACT    II. 


ACT     III 

Next  day  after  lunch  Lady  Britomart  is  writing  in  the 
library  in  Wilton  Crescent.  Sarah  is  reading  in  the 
armchair  near  the  rvindow.  Barbara,  in  ordinary  dress, 
pale  and  brooding,  is  on  the  settee.  Charles  Lomax 
enters.  Coming  fortvard  between  the  settee  and  the 
■writing  table,  he  starts  on  seeing  Barbara  fashionably 
attired  and  in  low  spirits. 

Lomax,     Youve  left  off  your  uniform! 

Barbara  says  nothing;  but  an  expression  of  pain  passes 
over  her  face. 

Lady  Britomart  {warning  him  in  low  tones  to  be 
careful).     Charles! 

Lomax  (much  concerned,  sitting  down  sympathetically 
on  the  settee  beside  Barbara).  I'm  awfully  sorry,  Bar- 
bara. You  know  I  helped  you  all  I  could  with  the  con- 
certina and  so  forth.  (Momentously.)  Still,  I  have 
never  shut  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  tosh  about  the  Salvation  Army.  Now  the 
claims  of  the  Church  of  England — 

Lady  Britomart.  Thats  enough,  Charles.  Speak  of 
something  suited  to  j'our  mental  capacity. 

Lomax.  But  surely  the  Church  of  England  is  suited 
to  all  our  capacities. 

Barbara  (pressing  his  hand).  Thank  you  for  your 
sympathy,  Cholly.     Now  go  and  spoon  with  Sarah. 

Lomax  (rising  and  going  to  Sarah).  How  is  my  own- 
est  today.'' 

Sarah.  I  wish  you  wouldnt  tell  Cholly  to  do  things, 
Barbara.  He  always  comes  straight  and  does  them. 
Cholly :  we're  going  to  the  works  at  Perivale  St.  Andrews 
this  afternoon. 


270  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

LoMAX.    "Wliat  works? 

Sarah.     The  cannon  works. 

LoMAX.     What!     Your  governor's  shop! 

Sarah.     Yes. 

LoMAx.     Oh  I  say! 

Cusins  enters  in  poor  condition.  He  also  starts  visibly 
when  he  sees  Barbara  without  her  uniform. 

Barbara.  I  expected  you  this  morning,  Dolly.  Didnt 
you  guess  that.'' 

CusiNs  (sitting  down  beside  her).  I'm  sorry.  I  have 
only  just  breakfasted. 

Sarah.     But  weve  just  finished  lunch. 

Barbara.     Have  you  had  one  of  your  bad  nights? 

CusiNs.  No:  I  had  rather  a  good  night:  in  fact,  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  nights  I  have  ever  passed. 

Barbara.     The  meeting? 

CusiNS.     No:  after  the  meeting. 

Lady  Britomart.  You  should  have  gone  to  bed  after 
the  meeting.     What  were  you  doing? 

CusiNs.     Drinking. 

Lady  Britomart.  "i  TAdolphus! 

Sarah.  M  Dolly! 

Barbara.  j|  Dolly! 

LoMAX.  j  I^Oh  I  say! 

Lady  Britomart.  What  were  you  drinking,  may  I 
ask? 

CusiNs.  A  most  devilish  kind  of  Spanish  burgundy, 
warranted  free  from  added  alcohol:  a  Temperance  bur- 
gundy in  fact.  Its  richness  in  natural  alcohol  made  any 
addition  superfluous. 

Barbara.     Are  you  joking,  Dolly? 

Cusins  (patiently) .  No.  I  have  been  making  a  night 
of  it  with  the  nominal  head  of  this  household :  that  is  all. 

Lady  Britomart.     Andrew  made  you  drunk ! 

CusiNs.  No:  he  only  provided  the  wine.  I  think  it 
was  Dionysos  who  made  me  drunk.  (To  Barbara.)  I 
told  you  I  was  possessed. 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  271 

Lady  Britomart.  Youre  not  sober  yet.  Go  home  to 
bed  at  once. 

CusiNs.  I  have  never  before  ventured  to  reproach 
you.  Lady  Brit;  but  how  could  you  marry  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  ? 

Lady  Britomart.  It  was  much  more  excusable  to 
marry  him  than  to  get  drunk  with  him.  That  is  a  new 
accomplishment  of  Andrew's,  by  the  way.  He  usent  to 
drink. 

CusiNs.  He  doesnt  now.  He  only  sat  there  and  com- 
pleted the  wreck  of  my  moral  basis,  the  rout  of  my 
convictions,  the  purchase  of  my  soul.  He  cares  for  you, 
Barbara.     That  is  what  makes  him  so  dangerous  to  me. 

Barbara.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Dolly. 
There  are  larger  loves  and  diviner  dreams  than  the  fire- 
side ones.     You  know  that,  dont  you? 

Cusixs.  Yes :  that  is  our  understanding.  I  know  it. 
I  hold  to  it.  Unless  he  can  win  me  on  that  holier  ground 
he  may  amuse  me  for  a  while;  but  he  can  get  no  deeper 
held,  strong  as  he  is. 

Barbara.  Keep  to  that;  and  the  end  Avill  be  right. 
Now  tell  me  what  happened  at  the  meeting? 

CusiNS.  It  was  an  amazing  meeting.  Mrs..  Baines 
almost  died  of  emotion.  Jenny  Hill  went  stark  mad 
with  hysteria.  The  Prince  of  Darkness  jDlayed  his  trom- 
bone like  a  madman:  its  brazen  roarings  were  like  the 
laughter  of  the  damned.  117  conversions  took  place 
then  and  there.  They  prayed  with  the  most  touching 
sincerity  and  gratitude  for  Bodger,  and  for  the  anony- 
mous donor  of  the  £5000.  Your  father  would  not  let 
his  name  be  given. 

LoM.\x.  That  was  rather  fine  of  the  old  man,  you 
know.     Most  chaps  would  have  wanted  the  advertisement. 

CusiNS.  He  said  all  the  charitable  institutions  would 
be  down  on  him  like  kites  on  a  battle  field  if  he  gave  his 
name. 

Lady  Britomart.     Thats  Andrew  all  over.     He  never 


272  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

does  a  proper__thing  without  giving  an  improper  reason 
for  it. 

CusiNs.  Hr  onvinced  me  that  I  have  all  my  life  been 
doing  impropei  things  for  proper  reasons. 

Lady  Britomart.  Adolphus:  now  that  Barbara  has 
left  the  Salvation  Army,  you  had  better  leave  it  too.  I 
will  not  have  you  playing  that  drum  in  the  streets. 

CusiNS.     Your  orders  are  already  obeyed.  Lady  Brit. 

Barbara.  Dolly:  were  you  ever  really  in  earnest 
about  it?  Would  you  have  joined  if  you  had  never  seen 
me? 

CusiNs  (disingenuously).  Well — er — well,  possibly, 
as  a  collector  of  religions — 

LoMAX  {cunningly).  Not  as  a  drummer,  though,  you 
know.  You  are  a  very  clearheaded  brainy  chap,  Cholly: 
and  it  must  have  been  apparent  to  you  that  there  is  a 
certain  amount  of  tosh  about — 

Lady  Britomart.  Charles:  if  you  must  drivel,  drivel 
like  a  grown-up  man  and  not  like  a  schoolboy. 

Lomax  {out  of  countenance).  Well,  drivel  is  drivel, 
dont  you  know,  whatever  a  man's  age. 

Lady  Britomart.  In  good  society  in  England, 
Charles,  men  drivel  at  all  ages  by  repeating  silly  for- 
mulas with  an  air  of  wisdom.  Schoolboys  make  their 
own  formulas  out  of  slang,  like  you.  When  they  reach 
your  age,  and  get  political  private  secretaryships  and 
things  of  that  sort,  they  drop  slang  and  get  their  for- 
mulas out  of  The  Spectator  or  The  Times.  You  had 
better  confine  yourself  to  The  Times.  You  will  find 
that  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  tosh  about  The  Times; 
but  at  least  its  language  is  reputable. 

LoMAX  {overwhelmed).  You  are  so  awfully  strong- 
minded,  Lady  Brit — 

Lady  Britomart.  Rubbish!  {Morrison  comes  in.) 
What  is  it? 

Morrison.  If  you  please,  my  lady,  Mr.  Undershaft 
has  just  drove  up  to  the  door. 


Act  III  Major  Barbara     .    ^  273 

Lady  Britomart.  Well,  let  him  in.  {Mprrison  hesi- 
tates.)    Whats  the  matter  with  you? 

Morrison.  Shall  I  announce  him,  n^j'^lady;  or  is  he 
at  home  here,  so  to  speak,  my  lady? 

Lady  Britomart.     Announce  him. 

Morrison.  Thank  you,  my  lady.  You  wont  paind  my 
asking,  I  hope.  The  occasion  is  in  a  manner  oiP  speaking 
new  to  me. 

Lady  Britomart.     Quite  right.     Go  and  let  him  in. 

Morrison.     Thank  you,  my  lady.     (Fie  withdraws.) 

Lady  Britomart.  Children:  go  and  get  ready. 
(Sarah  and  Barbara  go  tipstairs  for  their  out-of-door 
wraps.)  Charles:  go  and  tell  Stephen  to  come  down 
here  in  five  minutes:  you  will  find  him  in  the  drawing 
room.  (Charles  goes.)  Adolphus:  tell  them  to  send 
round  the  carriage  in  about  fifteen  minutes.  (Adolphvi 
goes.) 

ISIoRRisoN  (at  the  door).     Mr.  Undershaft. 

Undershaft  comes  in.     Morrison  goes  out. 

Undershaft.     Alone !     How  fortunate ! 

Lady  Britomart  (rising).  Dont  be  sentimental,  An- 
drew. Sit  down.  (She  sits  on  the  settee:  he  sits  beside 
her,  on  her  left.  She  comes  to  the  point  before  he  has 
time  to  breathe.)  Sarah  must  have  £800  a  year  until 
Charles  Lomax  comes  into  his  property.  Barbara  will 
need  more,  and  need  it  permanently,-  because  Adolphus 
hasnt  any  property. 

Undershaft  (resignedly).  Yes,  my  dear:  I  will  see 
to  it.     Anj'thing  else?  for  yourself,  for  instance? 

Lady  Britomart.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
Stephen. 

Undershaft  (rather  wearily).  Dont,  my  dear. 
Stephen  doesnt  interest  me. 

Lady  Britomart.  He  does  interest  me.  He  is  our 
son. 

Undershaft.  Do  you  really  think  so?  He  has  in- 
duced us  to  bring  him  into  the  world;  but  he  chose  his 


274  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

parents  very  incongruously,  I  think,  I  see  nothing  of 
myself  in  him,  and  less  of  you. 

Lady  Britomart.  Andrew:  Stephen  is  an  excellent 
son,  and  a  most  steady,  capable,  highminded  young  man. 
You  are  simply  trying  to  find  an  excuse  for  disinheriting 
him. 

Undershaft.  My  dear  Biddy:  the  Undershaft  tradi- 
tion disinherits  him.  It  would  be  dishonest  of  me  to 
leave  the  cannon  foundry  to  my  son. 

Lady  Britomart.  It  would  be  most  unnatural  and 
improper  of  you  to  leave  it  anyone  else,  Andrew.  Do 
you  suppose  this  wicked  and  immoral  tradition  can  be 
kept  up  for  ever.?  Do  you  pretend  that  Stephen  could 
not  carry  on  the  foundry  just  as  well  as  all  the  other 
sons  of  the  big  business  houses? 

Undershaft.  Yes:  he  could  learn  the  office  routine 
without  understanding  the  business,  like  all  the  other 
sons;  and  the  firm  would  go  on  by  its  own  momentum 
until  the  real  Undershaft — probably  an  Italian  or  a  Ger- 
man— would  invent  a  new  method  and  cut  him  out. 

Lady  Britomart.  There  is  nothing  that  any  Italian 
or  German  could  do  that  Stephen  could  not  do.  And 
Stephen  at  least  has  breeding. 

Undershaft.     The  son  of  a  foundling !  nonsense  ! 

Lady  Britomart.  My  son,  Andrew!  And  even  you 
may  have  good  blood  in  your  veins  for  all  you  know. 

Undershaft.  True.  Probably  I  have.  That  is  an- 
other argument  in  favor  of  a  foundling. 

Lady  Britomart.  Andrew:  dont  be  aggravating. 
And  dont  be  wicked.     At  present  you  are  both. 

Undershaft.  This  conversation  is  part  of  the  Un- 
dershaft tradition,  Biddy.  Every  Undershaft's  wife  has 
treated  him  to  it  ever  since  the  house  was  founded.  It 
is  mere  waste  of  breath.  If  the  tradition  be  ever  broken 
it  will  be  for  an  abler  man  than  Stephen. 

Lady  Britomart  {pouting).     Then  go  away. 

Undershaft  {deprecatory).     Go  away! 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  275 

Lady  Britomart.  Yes:  go  away.  If  you  will  do 
nothing  for  Stephen^  you  are  not  wanted  here.  Go  to 
your  foundling,  whoever  he  is ;  and  look  after  him. 

Undershaft.     The  fact  is,  Biddy — 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  call  me  Biddy.  I  dont  call 
you  Andy. 

Undershaft.  I  will  not  call  my  wife  Britomart:  it 
is  not  good  sense.  Seriously,  my  love,  the  Undershaft 
tradition  has  landed  me  in  a  difficulty.  I  am  getting  on 
in  years;  and  my  partner  Lazarus  has  at  last  made  a 
stand  and  insisted  that  the  succession  must  be  settled 
one  way  or  the  other;  and  of  course  he  is  quite  right. 
You  see,  I  havnt  found  a  fit  successor  yet. 

Lady  Britomart  (obstinately).     There  is  Stephen. 

Undershaft.  Thats  just  it:  all  the  foundlings  I  can 
find  are  exactly  like  Stephen. 

Lady  Britomart.     Andrew ! ! 

Undershaft.  I  want  a  man  with  no  relations  and  no 
schooling:  that  is,  a  man  who  would  be  out  of  the  run- 
ning altogether  if  he  were  not  a  strong  man.  And  I 
cant  find  him.  Every  blessed  foundling  nowadays  is 
snapped  up  in  his  infancy  by  Barnardo  homes,  or  School 
Board  officers,  or  Boards  of  Guardians;  and  if  he  shews 
the  least  ability,  he  is  fastened  on  by  schoolmasters; 
trained  to  win  scholarships  like  a  racehorse;  crammed 
with  secondhand  idefft ;  drilled  and  disciplined  in  docility 
and  what  they  call  good  taste;  and  lamed  for  life  so 
that  he  is  fit  for  nothing  but  teaching.  If  you  want  to 
keep  the  foundry  in  the  family,  you  had  better  find  an 
eligible  foundling  and  marry  him  to  Barbara. 

Lady  Britomart.  Ah!  Barbara!  Your  pet!  You 
would  sacrifice  Stephen  to  Barbara. 

Undershaft.  Cheerfully.  And  you,  my  dear,  would 
boil  Barbara  to  make  soup  for  Stephen. 

Lady  Britomart.  Andrew:  this  is  not  a  question  of 
our  likings  and  dislikings:  it  is  a  question  of  duty.  It 
is  your  duty  to  make  Stephen  your  successor. 


276  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

Undershaft.  Just  as  much  as  it  is  your  duty  to 
submit  to  your  husband.  Come,  Biddy !  these  tricks  of 
the  governing  class  are  of  no  use  with  me.  I  am  one 
of  the  governing  class  myself;  and  it  is  waste  of  time 
giving  tracts  to  a  missionary.  I  have  the  power  in  this 
matter;  and  I  am  not  to  be  humbugged  into  using  it  for 
your  purposes. 

Lady  Britomart.  Andrew:  you  can  talk  my  head 
off;  but  you  cant  change  wrong  into  right.  And  your 
tie  is  all  on  one  side.     Put  it  straight. 

Undershaft  {disconcerted).  It  wont  stay  unless  it's 
pinned —  {he  fumbles  at  it  jvith  childish  grimaces). 

Stephen  comes  in. 

Stephen  {at  the  door).  I  beg  your  pardon  {about  to 
retire). 

Lady  Britomart.  No:  come  in,  Stephen.  {Stephen 
comes  forward  to  his  mother's  writing  table.) 

Undershaft  {not  very  cordially).     Good  afternoon. 

Stephen   {coldly).     Good  afternoon. 

Undershaft  {to  Lady  Britomart).  He  knows  all 
about  the  tradition,  I  suppose.'' 

Lady  Britomart.  Yes.  {To  Stephen.)  It  is  what  I 
told  you  last  night,  Stephen. 

Undershaft  {sulkily).  I  imderstand  you  want  to 
come  into  the  cannon  business. 

Stephen.     I  go  into  trade !     Certainly  not. 

Undershaft  {opening  his  eyes,  greatly  eased  in  mind 
and  manner).     Oh!  in  that  case — ! 

Lady  Britomart.  Cannons  are  not  trade,  Stephen. 
They  are  enterprise. 

Stephen.  I  have  no  intention  of  becoming  a  man 
of  business  in  any  sense.  I  have  no  capacity  for  busi- 
ness and  no  taste  for  it.  I  intend  to  devote  myself  to 
politics. 

Undershaft  {rising).  My  dear  boy:  this  is  an  im- 
mense relief  to  me.  And  I  trust  it  may  prove  an  equally 
good  thing  for  the  country.      I   was   afraid  you  would 


Act  in  Major  Barbara  277 

consider  yourself  disparaged  and  slighted.  {He  moves 
towards  Stephen  as  if  to  shake  hands  with  him.) 

Lady  Britomart  {rising  and  interposing).  Stephen: 
I  cannot  allow  you  to  throw  away  an  enormous  property 
like  this. 

Stephen  (stiffly).  Mother:  there  must  be  an  end  of 
treating  me  as  a  child,  if  you  please.  (Lady  Britomart 
recoils,  deeply  wounded  by  his  tone.)  Until  last  night 
I  did  not  take  your  attitude  seriously,  because  I  did  not 
think  you  meant  it  seriously.  But  I  find  now  that 
you  left  me  in  the  dark  as  to  matters  which  3'3U  should 
have  explained  to  me  years  ago.  I  am  extremely  hurt 
and  offended.  Any  further  discussion  of  my  intentions 
had  better  take  place  with  my  father,  as  between  one 
man  and  another. 

Lady  Britomart.  Stephen !  (She  sits  down  again; 
and  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.) 

Undershaft  (with  grave  compassion).  You  see,  my 
dear,  it  is  only  the  big  men  who  can  be  treated  as  chil- 
dren. 

Stephen.  I  am  sorry,  mother,  that  you  have  forced 
me — 

Undershaft  (stopping  him).  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes: 
thats  all  right,  Stephen.  She  wont  interfere  with  you 
any  more:  your  independence  is  achieved:  you  have 
won  your  latchkey.  Dont.rub  it  in;  and  above  all,  dont 
apologize.  (He  resumes  his  seat.)  Now  what  about 
your  future,  as  between  one  man  and  another — I 
beg  3'our  pardon,  Biddy:  as  between  two  men  and 
a  woman. 

Lady  Britomart  (who  has  pulled  herself  together 
strongly).  I  quite  imderstand,  Stephen.  By  all  means 
go  your  own  way  if  you  feel  strong  enough.  (Stephen 
sits  down  magisterially  in  the  chair  at  the  writing  table 
tvith  an  air  of  affirming  his  majority.) 

Undershaft.  It  is  settled  that  you  do  not  ask  for 
the  succession  to  the  cannon  business. 


278  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

Stephen.  I  hope  it  is  settled  that  I  repudiate  the 
cannon  business. 

Undershaft.  Come,  come!  dont  be  so  devilishly- 
sulky:  it's  boyish.  Freedom  should  be  generous.  Be- 
sides, I  owe  you  a  fair  start  in  life  in  exchange  for 
disinheriting  you.  You  cant  become  prime  minister  all 
at  once.  Havnt  you  a  turn  for  something?  What  about 
literature,  art  and  so  forth? 

Stephen.  I  have  nothing  of  the  artist  about  me, 
either  in  faculty  or  character,  thank  Heaven ! 

Undershaft.     A  philosopher,  perhaps?     Eh?     , 

Stephen.     I  make  no  such  ridiculous  pretension. 

Undershaft.  Just  so.  Well,  there  is  the  army,  the 
navy,  the  Church,  the  Bar.  The  Bar  requires  some  abil- 
ity.    What  about  the  Bar? 

Stephen.  I  have  not  studied  law.  And  I  am  afraid 
I  have  not  the  necessary  push — I  believe  that  is  the 
name  barristers  give  to  their  vulgarity — for  success  in 
pleading. 

Undershaft.  Rather  a  difficult  case,  Stephen.  Hardly 
anything  left  but  the  stage,  is  there?  (^Stephen  makes 
an  impatient  movement.)  Well,  come!  is  there  any- 
thing you  know  or  care  for  ? 

Stephen  (rising  and  looking  at  him  steadily).  I 
know  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong. 

Undershaft  (hugely  tickled).  You  dont  say  so! 
What!  no  capacity  for  business,  no  knowledge  of  law, 
no  sympathy  with  art,  no  pretension  to  philosophy;  only 
a  simple  knowledge  of  the  secret  that  has  puzzled  all 
the  philoso2:)hers,  baffled  all  the  lawyers,  muddled  all 
the  men  of  business,  and  ruined  most  of  the  artists:  the 
secret  of  right  and  wrong.  \ATiy,  man,  youre  a  genius, 
a  master  of  masters,  a  god !     At  twenty-four,  too ! 

Stephen  (keeping  his  temper  with  difficulty).  You 
are  pleased  to  be  facetious.  I  pretend  to  nothing  more 
than  any  honorable  English  gentleman  claims  as  his 
birthright  (he  sits  down  angrily). 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  270 

Undershaft.  Oh,  tliats  everybody's  birthright.  Look 
at  poor  little  Jenny  Hill,  the  Salvation  lassie !  she  would 
think  you  were  laughing  at  her  if  you  asked  her  to 
stand  up  in  the  street  and  teach  grammar  or  geography 
or  mathematics  or  even  drawingroom  dancing;  but  it 
never  occurs  to  her  to  doubt  that  she  can  teach  morals 
and  religion.  You  are  all  alike,  you  respectable  people. 
You  cant  tell  me  tlielbnrsting  strain  of^ai  ten-inch  gun, 
which  is  a  very  simple  matter;  but  you  all  think  you  can 
tell  me  the  bursting  strain  of  a  man  under  temptation. 
You  darent  handle  high  explosives ;  but  youre  all  ready 
to  handle  honesty  and  truth  and  justice  and  the  whole 
duty  of  man,  and  kill  one  another  at  that  game.  What 
a  country  !  what  a  world  ! 

Lady  Britomart  (uneasily).  What  do  you  think  he 
had  better  do,  Andrew? 

Undershaft.  Oh,  just  what  he  wants  to  do.  He 
knows  nothing ;  and  he  thinks  he  knows  everything.  That 
points  clearly  to  a  political  career.  Get  him  a  private 
secretaryship  to  someone  who  can  get  him  an  Under 
Secretaryship ;  and  then  leave  him  alone.  He  will  find 
his  natural  and  proper  place  in  the  end  on  the  Treasury 
bench. 

Stephen  {springing  up  again).  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that 
you  force  me  to  forget  the  respect  due  to  you  as  my 
father.  I  am  an  Englishman;  and  I  will  not  hear  the 
Government  of  my  country  insulted.  (He  thrusts  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  walks  angrily  across  to  the 
window.) 

Undershaft  (with  a  touch  of  brutality).  The  gov- 
ernment of  your  country !  /  am  the  government  of  your 
country:  I,  and  Lazarus.  Do  you  suppose  that  you  and 
half  a  dozen  amateurs  like  you,  sitting  in  a  row  in  that 
foolish  gabble  shop,  can  govern  Undershaft  and  Lazarus  ? 
No,  my  friend :  you  will  do  what  pays  u  s.  You  will 
make  war  when  it  suits  us,  and  keep  peace  when  it 
doesnt.     You  will  find  out  that  trade  requires  certain 


280  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

measures  when  we  have  decided  on  those  measures. 
^Vl^en  I  want  anything  to  keep  my  dividends  up,  j^ou 
will  discover  that  my  want  is  a  national  need.  When 
other  people  want  something  to  keep  my  dividends  down, 
you  will  call  out  the  police  and  military.  And  in  return 
you  shall  have  the  support  and  applause  of  my  news- 
papers, and  the  delight  of  imagining  that  you  are  a  great 
statesman.  Government  of  your  country !  Be  off  with 
you,  my  boy,  and  play  with  your  caucuses  and  leading 
articles  and  historic  parties  and  great  leaders  and  burn- 
ing questions  and  the  rest  of  your  toys.  I  am  going 
back  to  my  counting  house  to  pay  the  piper  and  call  the 
tune. 

Stephen  {actually  smiling,  and  putting  his  hand  on 
his  father's  shoulder  with  indulgent  patronage}.  Really, 
my  dear  father,  it  is  impossible  to  be  angry  with  you. 
You  don't  know  how  absurd  all  this  sounds  to  m  e.  You 
are  very  properly  proud  of  having  been  industrious 
enough  to  make  money;  and  it  is  greatly  to  your  credit 
that  you  have  made  so  much  of  it.  But  it  has  kept  you 
in  circles  where  you  are  valued  for  your  money  and 
deferred  to  for  it,  instead  of  in  the  doubtless  very  old- 
fashioned  and  behind-the-times  public  school  and  uni- 
versity where  I  formed  my  habits  of  mind.  It  is  natural 
for  you  to  think  that  money  governs  England;  but  you 
must  allow  me  to  think  I  know  better. 

Undershaft.  And  what  does  govern  England, 
pray  ? 

Stephen.     Character,  father,  character. 

Undershaft.     Whose  character.''     Yours  or  m^ne? 

Stephen.  Neither  yours  nor  mine,  father,  but  the 
best  elements  in  the  English  national  character. 

Undershaft.  Stephen:  Ive  found  , your  profession 
for  you.  Youre  a  born  journalist.  I'll  start  you  with  a 
high-toned  weekly  review.     There! 

Stephen  goes  to  the  smaller  writing  table  and  busies 
himself  with  his  letters. 


Act  m  Major  Barbara  281 

Sarah,  Barbara,  Lomax,  and  Cus'ins  come  in  ready  for 
walking.  Barbara  crosses  the  room  to  the  window  and 
looks  out.  Cusins  drifts  amiablij  to  the  armchair,  and 
Lomax  remains  near  the  door,  whilst  Sarah  comes  to  her 
mother. 

Sarah.  Go  and  get  ready,  mamma:  the  carriage  is 
waiting.     (Lady  Britomart  leaves  the  room.) 

Undershaft  (to  Sarah).  Good  day,  my  dear.  Good 
afternoon,  Mr.  Lomax. 

Lomax  (vaguely).     Ahdedoo. 

Undershaft  (<o  Cusins).  Quite  well  after  last  night, 
Euripides,  eh.'' 

Cusins.     As  well  as  can  be  expected. 

Undershaft.  Thats  right.  (To  Barbara.)  So  you 
are  coming  to  see  my  death  and  devastation  factory, 
Barbara? 

Barbara  (at  the  window).  You  came  yesterday  to 
see  my  salvation  factory.     I  promised  you  a  return  visit. 

Lomax  (coming  forward  between  Sarah  and  Under- 
shaft). Youll  find  it  awfully  interesting.  Ive  been 
through  the  Woolwich  Arsenal;  and  it  gives  you  a  rip- 
ping feeling  of  security,  you  know,  to  think  of  the  lot 
of  beggars  we  could  kill  if  it  came  to  fighting.  (To 
Undershaft,  with  sudden  solemnity.)  Still,  it  must  be 
rather  an  awful  reflection  for  yoUj  from  the  religious 
point  of  view  as  it  were.  Youre  getting  on,  you  know, 
and  all  that. 

Sarah.  You  dont  mind  Cholly's  imbecility,  papa,  do 
you.^ 

Lomax  (much  taken  aback).     Oh  I  say! 

Undershaft.  Mr.  Lomax  looks  at  the  matter  in  a 
very  proper  spirit,  my  dear. 

Lomax.     Just  so.     Thats  all  I  meant,  I  assure  you. 

Sarah.     Are  you  coming,  Stephen.'' 

Stephen.  Well,  I  am  rather  busy — er —  (Magnani- 
mously.) Oh  well,  yes:  I'll  come.  That  is,  if  there  is 
room  for  me. 


282  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

Undershaft.  I  can  take  two  with  me  in  a  little 
motor  I  am  experimenting  with  for  field  use.  You  wont 
mind  its  being  rather  unfashionable.  It's  not  painted 
yet;  but  it's  bullet  proof. 

LoMAX  {appalled  at  the  prospect  of  confronting  Wil- 
ton Crescent  in  an  unpointed  motor).     Oh  I  say! 

Sarah.  The  carriage  for  me,  thank  you.  ■  Barbara 
doesnt  mind  what  shes  seen  in. 

Lomax.  I  say,  Dolly  old  chap:  do  you  really  mind 
the  car  being  a  guy.''  Because  of  course  if  you  do  I'll 
go  in  it.     Still — 

CusiNS.     I  prefer  it. 

Lomax.  Thanks  awfully,  old  man.  Come,  Sarah. 
(He  hurries  out  to  secure  his  seat  in  the  carriage.  Sarah 
follows  him.) 

CusiNs  (moodily  walking  across  to  Lady  Britomart's 
writing  table).  Why  are  we  two  coming  to  this  Works 
Department  of  Hell?  that  is  what  I  ask  myself. 

Barbara.  I  have  always  thought  of  it  as  a  sort  of 
pit  where  lost  creatures  with  blackened  faces  stirred  up 
smoky  fires  and  were  driven  and  tormented  by  my  father .'' 
Is  it  like  that,  dad.> 

Undershaft  (scandalized).  My  dear!  It  is  a  spot- 
lessly clean  and  beautiful  hillside  town. 

CusiNs.  With  a  Methodist  chapel.'*  Oh  do  say 
theres  a  Methodist  chapel. 

Undershaft.  There  are  two:  a  Primitive  one  and  a 
sophisticated  one.  There  is  even  an  Ethical  Society;  but 
it  is  not  much  patronized,  as  my  men  are  all  strongly 
religious.  In  the  High  Explosives  Sheds  they  object  to 
the  presence  of  Agnostics  as  unsafe. 

CusiNs.     And  yet  they  dont  object  to  you! 

Barbara.     Do  they  obey  all  your  orders? 

Undershaft.  I  never  give  them  any  orders.  When 
I  speak  to  one  of  them  it  is  "  Well,  Jones,  is  the  baby 
doing  well?  and  has  Mrs.  Jones  made  a  good  recovery?  " 
"  Nicely,  thank  you,  sir."    And  thats  all. 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  283 

Clsixs.  But  Jones  has  to  be  kept  in  order.  How  do 
Tou  maintain  discipline  among  your  men? 

Ux|tRSHAFT.  I  dont.  They  do.  You  see,  the  one 
thing  ^ones  wont  stnnd  is  any  rebellion  from  the  man 
under  him,  or  any  assertion  of  social  equality  between 
the  wife  of  the  man  with  -i  shillings  a  week  less  than 
himself,  and  Mrs.  Jones!  Of  course  they  all  rebel 
against  me,  theoretically.  Practically,  every  man  of 
them  keeps  the  man  just  below  him  in  his  place.  I 
never  meddle  with  them.  I  never  bully  them.  I  dont 
even  bully  Lazarus.  I  say  that  certain  things  are  to  be 
done;  but  I  dont  order  anybody  to  do  them.  I  dont  say, 
mind  you,  that  there  is  no  ordering  about  and  snubbing 
and  even  bullying.  The  men  snub  the  boys  and  order 
them  about;  the  carmen  snub  the  sweepers;  the  artisans 
snub  the  unskilled  laborers;  the  foremen  drive  and  bully 
both  the  laborers  and  artisans;  the  assistant  engineers 
find  fault  with  the  foremen ;  the  chief  engineers  drop 
on  the  assistants ;  the  departmental  managers  worry  the 
chiefs ;  and  the  clerks  have  tall  hats  and  hymnbooks  and 
keep  up  the  social  tone  by  refusing  to  associate  on  equal 
terms  with  anybody.  The  result  is  a  colossal  profit, 
which  comes  to  me. 

Crsixs  (rei-olted).  You  really  are  a^well,  what  I 
was  saying  yesterday. 

Barbara.     What  was  he  saying  yesterday? 

UxDERSHAFT.  Never  mind,  my  dear.  He  thinks  I 
have  made  you  unhappy.     Have  I  ? 

Barbara.  Do  you  think  I  can  be  happy  in  this  vulgar 
silly  dress  ?  I !  who  have  worn  the  uniform.  Do  you 
imderstand  what  you  have  done  to  me  ?  Yesterday  I  had 
a  man's  soul  in  my  hand.  I  set  him  in  the  way  of  life 
with  his  face  to  salvation.  But  when  we  took  your 
money  he  turned  back  to  drunkenness  and  derision. 
(JVith  ,intense  conviction.)  I  will  never  forgive  you 
that.  If  I  had  a  child,  and  you  destroyed  its  body  with 
your  explosives — if  you  murdered  Dolly  with  your  hor- 


284  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

rible  guns — I  could  forgive  you  if  my  forgiveness  vrould 
open  the  gates  of  heaven  to  you.  But  to  take  ajiuman 
soul  from  me,  and  turn  it  into  the  soul  of  a  woM!  that 
is  worse  than  any  murder.  vW 

Undershaft.  Does  my  daughter  despair  so  easily? 
Can  you  strike  a  man  to  the  heart  and  leave  no  mark  on 
him? 

Barbara  (her  face  lighting  up).  Oh,  you  are  right: 
he  can  never  be  lost  now :  where  was  my  faith  ? 

CusiNS.     Oh,  clever  clever  devil! 

Barbara.  You  may  be  a  devil;  but  God  sjDeaks 
through  you  sometimes.  (She  takes  her  father's  hands 
and  kisses  them.)  You  have  given  me  back  my  happi- 
ness: I  feel  it  deep  down  now,  though  my  spirit  is 
troubled. 

Undershaft.  You  have  learnt  something.  That  al- 
ways feels  at  first  as  if  you  had  lost  something. 

Barbara.  Well,  take  me  to  the  factory  of  death,  and 
let  me  learn  something  more.  There  must  be  some  truth 
or  other  behind  all  this  frightful  irony.  Come,  Dolly. 
(She  goes  out.) 

Cusixs.  My  guardian  angel!  (To  Undershaft.) 
Avaimt!     (He  follows  Barbara.) 

Stephen  (quietly,  at  the  writing  table).  You  must  not 
mind  Cusins,  father.  He  is  a  very  amiable  good  fellow; 
but  he  is  a  Greek  scholar  and  naturally  a  little  eccentric. 

Undershaft.  Ah,  quite  so.  Thank  you,  Stephen. 
Thank  you.     (He  goes  out.) 

Stephen  smiles  patronizinglij ;  buttons  his  coat  re- 
sponsibly; and  crosses  the  room  to  the  door.  Lady 
Britomart,  dressed  for  o'Ut-of -doors,  opens  it  before  he 
reaches  it.  She  looks  round  for  the  others;  looks  at 
Stephen;  and  turns  to  go  without  a  word. 

Stephen  (embarrassed).     Mother — 

Lady  Britomart.  Dont  be  apologetic,  Stephen.  And 
dont  forget  that  you  have  outgrown  your  mother.  (She 
goes  out.) 


I 


Act  nl  Major  Barbara  285 

Perivale  St.  Andretvs  lies  bettveen  two  Middlesex  hills, 
half  giimbing  the  northern  one.  It  is  an  almost  smoke- 
l^ssMfU^of  white  walls,  roofs  of  narrow  green  slates  or 
rec^Ues/wJ  trees,  domes,  campaniles,  and  slender  chim- 
ncif  shafts,"  b$aut  if  ally  situated  and  beautiful  in  itself. 
Theif^  vienf  of  it  is  obtained  from  the  crest  of  a  slope 
about  lialf  a  mile  to  the  east,  where  the  high  explosives 
are  dealt  with.  The  foundry  lies  hidden  in  the  depths 
between,  the  tops  of  its  chimneys  sprouting  like  huge 
skittles  into  the  middle  distance.  Across  the  crest  runs 
a  platform  of  concrete,  with  a  parapet  which  suggests  a 
fortification,  because  there  is  a  huge  cannon  of  the 
obsolete  Woolwich  Infant  pattern  peering  across  it  at 
the  town.  The  cannon  is  mounted  on  an  experimental 
gun  carriage:  possibly  the  original  model  of  the  Under- 
shaft  disappearing  rampart  gun  alluded  to  by  Stephen. 
The  parapet  has  a  high  step  inside  which  serves  as  a  seat. 

Barbara  is  leaning  over  the  parapet,  looking  towards 
the  town.  On  her  right  is  the  cannon;  on  her  left  the 
end  of  a  shed  raised  on  piles,  with  a  ladder  of  three  or 
four  steps  up  to  the  door,  which  opens  outwards  and 
has  a  little  wooden  landing  at  the  threshold,  with  a  fire 
bucket  in  the  corner  of  the  landing.  The  parapet  stops 
short  of  the  shed,  leaving  a  gap  which  is  the  beginning 
of  the  path  down  the  hill  through  the  foundry  to  the 
town.  Behind  the  cannon  is  a  trolley  carrying  a  huge 
conical  bombshell,  with  a  red  band  painted  on  it.  Fur- 
ther from  the  parapet,  on  the  same  side,  is  a  deck  chair, 
near  the  door  of  an  office,  which,  like  the  sheds,  is  of  the 
lightest  possible  construction. 

Cusins  arrives  by  the  path  from  the  town. 

Barbara.     Well  ? 

Cusins.  Not  a  ray  of  hope.  Everytliing  perfect, 
wonderful,  real.  It  only  needs  a  cathedral  to  be  a 
heavenly  city  instead  of  a  hellish  one. 

Barbara.  Have  you  found  out  whether  they  have 
done  anything  for  old  Peter  Shirley. 


286  Major  Barbara      '  Act  HI 

CusiNs.     They  have  found  him  a  job  as  gatekeeper 
and  timekeeper.     He's  frightfully  miserable, 
the  timekeeping  brainwork,  and  says  he  isnt 
and  his  gate  lodge  is  so  splendid  that  hes  asl 
the  rooms,  and  skulks  in  the  scullery. 

Barbara.     Poor  Peter! 

Stephen  arrives  from  the  tOTvn.  He  carries  a  field- 
glass. 

Stephen  {enthusiastically).  Have  you  two  seen  the 
place?     Why  did  you  leave  us? 

CusiNS.  I  wanted  to  see  everything  I  was  not  in- 
tended to  see ;  and  Barbara  wanted  to  make  the  men  talk. 

Stephen.     Have  you  found  anything  discreditable? 

CrsiNS.  No.  They  call  him  Dandy  Andy  and  are 
proud  of  his  being  a  cunning  old  rascal;  but  it's  all 
horribly,  frightfully,  immorally,  unanswerably  perfect. 

Sarah  arrives. 

Sarah.  Heavens !  what  a  place !  {She  crosses  to  the 
trolley.)  Did  you  see  the  nursing  home!?  {She  sits 
down  on  the  shell.) 

Stephen.     Did  you  see  the  libraries  and  schools !  ? 

Sarah.  Did  you  see  the  ball  room  and  the  banqueting 
chamber  in  the  ToAvn  Hall !  ? 

Stephen.  Have  you  gone  into  the  insurance  fund, 
the  pension  fund,  the  building  society,  the  various  ap- 
plications of  co-operation !  ? 

Undershaft  comes  from  the  office,  with  a  sheaf  of 
telegrams  in  his  hands. 

Undershaft.  Well,  have  you  seen  everything?  I'm 
sorry  I  was  called  away.  {Indicating  the  telegrams.) 
News  from  Manchuria. 

Stephen,     Good  news,  I  hope. 

Undershaft.     Very. 

Stephen.     Another  Japanese  victory? 

Undershaft.  Oh,  I  dont  know.  WTiich  side  wins 
docs  not  concern  us  here.  No :  the  good  news  is  that  the 
aerial  battleship  is  a  tremendous  success.     At  the  first 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  287 

trial  it  has  wiped  out  a  fort  with  three  hundred  soldiers 
in  it. 

CusiNs  (from  the  platform).     Dummy  soldiers? 

Undersiiaft,  No:  the  real  thing.  (Cusins  and  Bar- 
hara  exchange  glances.  Then  Cusins  sits  on  the  step 
and  buries  his  face  in  his  hands.  Barbara  gravely  lays 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  looks  up  at  her  in  a 
sort  of  tvhitnsical  desperation.)  Wcll^  Stephen,  what  do 
you  think  of  the  place? 

Stephen.  Ohj_Qiagiiifi€€nt.  A  perfect  triumph  of 
organization.  Frankly,  my  dear  father,  I  have  been  a 
fool:  I  had  no  idea  of  what  it  all  meant — of  the  won- 
derful forethought,  the  power  of  organization,  the  ad- 
ministrative capacity,  tlie  financial  genius,  the  colossal 
capital  it  represents.  I  have  been  repeating  to  myself 
as  I  came  through  your  streets  "  Peace  hath  lier  victories 
no  less  renowned  than  War."  I  have  only  one  misgiving 
about  it  all. 

Undershaft.     Out  witli  it. 

Stephen.  Well,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  all  this 
provision  for  every  want  of  your  workmen  may  sap  their 
indei^endence  and  weaken  their  sense  of  rcsjionsibility. 
And  greatly  as  we  enjoyed  our  tea  at  that  splendid 
restaurant — how  they  gave  us  all  that  luxury  and  cake 
and  jam  and  cream  for  threepence  I  really  cannot  imag- 
ine ! — still  you  must  remember  that  restaurants  break  up 
home  life.  Look  at  the  continent,  for  instance !  Are 
you  sure  so  much  pampering  is  really  good  for  thcjuen's 
characters  ? 

Undershaft.  Well  you  see,  my  dear  boy,  when  you 
are  organizing  civilization  you  have  to  make  up  your 
mind  whether  trouble  and  anxiety  are  good  things  or 
not.  If  you  decide  that  they  are,  then,  I  take  it,  you 
simply  dont  organize  civilization ;  and  there  you  are, 
with  trouble  and  anxiety  enough  to  make  us  all  angels  ! 
But  if  you  decide  the  other  way,  you  may  as  well  go 
through  with  it.     However,  Stephen,  our  characters  are 


288  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

safe  here.  A  sufficient  dose  of  anxiety  is  always  pro- 
vided by  the  fact  that  we  may  be  blown  to  smithereens 
at  any  moment. 

Sarah.  By  the  way,  papa,  where  do  you  make  the 
explosives .'' 

Undershaft.  In  separate  little  sheds,  like  that  one. 
When  one  of  them  blows  up,  it  costs  very  little;  and 
only  the  people  quite  close  to  it  are  killed. 

Stephen,  who  is  quite  close  to  it,  looks  at  it  rather 
scaredly,  and  moves  away  quickly  to  the  cannon.  At 
the  same  moment  the  door  of  the  shed  is  thrown  abruptly 
open;  and  a  foreman  in  overalls  and  list  slippers  comes 
out  on  the  little  landing  and  holds  the  door  open  for 
Lomax,  who  appears  in  the  doorway. 

LoMAX  {ivith  studied  coolness}.  My  good  fellow:  you 
neednt  get  into  a  state  of  nerves.  Nothing's  going  to 
happen  to  you;  and  I  suppose  it  wouldnt  be  the  end  of 
the  world  if  anything  did.  A  little  bit  of  British  pluck 
is  what  you  want,  old  chap.  (He  descends  and  strolls 
across  to  Sarah.) 

Undershaft  (to  the  foreman).  Anything  wrong, 
Bilton  ? 

BiLTON  (with  ironic  calm).  Gentleman  walked  into 
the  high  explosives  shed  and  lit  a  cigaret,  sir:  thats  all. 

Undershaft.  Ah,  quite  so.  (To  Lomax.)  Do  you 
happen  to  remember  what  you  did  with  the  match  .^ 

Lomax.  Oh  come!  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  took  jolly  good 
care  to  blow  it  out  before  I  chucked  it  away. 

Bilton.     The  top  of  it  was  red  hot  inside,  sir. 

Lomax.  Well,  suppose  it  was !  I  didnt  chuck  it  into 
any  of  your  messes. 

Undershaft.  Think  no  more  of  it,  Mr.  Lomax.  By 
the  way,  would  j-^ou  mind  lending  me  your  matches? 

Lomax  (offering  his  box).     Certainly. 

Undershaft.     Thanks.      (He  pockets  the  matches.) 

Lomax  (lecturing  to  the  company  generally).  You 
know,  these  high  explosives  dont  go  off  like  gunpowder, 


Act  ni  Major  Barbara  289 

except  when  theyre  in  a  gun.  When  theyre  spread 
loose,  you  can  put  a  match  to  them  without  the  least 
risk:  they  just  burn  quietly  like  a  bit  of  paper.  {Warm- 
ing to  the  scientific  interest  of  the  subject.)  Did  you 
know  that,  Undershaft?     Have  you  ever  tried? 

Undershaft.  Not  on  a  large  scale,  Mr.  Lomax.  Bil- 
lon will  give  you  a  sample  of  gun  cotton  when  you  are 
leaving  if  you  ask  him.  You  can  experiment  with  it  at 
home.     {Bilton  looks  puzzled.) 

Sarah.  Bilton  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  papa.  I 
suppose  it's  your  business  to  blow  up  the  Russians  and 
Japs;  but  you  might  really  stop  short  of  blowing  up 
poor  ChoUy.  {Bilton  gives  it  up  and  retires  into  the 
shed.) 

LoMAx.  My  ownest,  there  is  no  danger.  {He  sits 
beside  her  on  the  shell.) 

Lady  Britomart  arrives  from  the  town  with  a  bouquet. 

Lady  Britomart  {coming  impetuously  between  Un- 
dershaft and  the  deck  chair).  Andrew:  you  shouldnt 
have  let  me  see  this  place. 

Undershaft.     Why,  my  dear? 

Lady  Britomart.  Never  mind  why:  you  shouldnt 
have:  thats  all.  To  think  of  all  that  {indicating  the 
town)  being  yours !  and  that  you  have  kept  it  to  yourself 
all  these  years ! 

Undershaft.  It  does  not  belong  to  me.  I  belong  to 
it.     It  is  the  Undershaft  inheritance. 

Lady  Britomart.  It  is  not.  Your  ridiculous  cannons 
and  that  noisy  banging  foundry  may  be  the  Undershaft 
inheritance;  but  all  that  plate  and  linen,  all  that  furni- 
ture and  those  houses  and  orchards  and  gardens  belong 
to  us.  They  belong  to  me:  they  are  not  a  man's  busi- 
ness. I  wont  give  them  up.  You  must  be  out  of  your 
senses  to  throw  them  all  away;  and  if  you  persist  in 
such  folly,  I  will  call  in  a  doctor. 

Undershaft  {stooping  to  smell  the  bouquet).  Where 
did  you  get  the  flowers,  my  dear? 


290  Major  Barbara  Act  in 

Lady  Britomart.  Your  men  presented  them  to  me 
in  your  William  Morris  Labor  Church. 

CusiNs  (springing  up).  Oh!  It  needed  only  that. 
A  Labor  Church ! 

Lady  Britomart.  Yes,  with  Morris's  words  in  mosaic 
letters  ten  feet  high  round  the  dome.     No  man  is  good 

ENOUGH    TO    BE    ANOTHER    MAN's    MASTER.       The    Cynlcism 

of  it! 

Undershaft.  It  shocked  the  men  at  first,  I  am 
afraid.  But  now  they  take  no  more  notice  of  it  than 
of  the  ten  commandments  in  church. 

Lady  Britomart.  Andrew:  you  are  trying  to  put  me 
off  the  subject  of  the  inheritance  by  profane  jokes. 
Well,  you  shant.  I  dont  ask  it  any  longer  for  Stephen: 
he  has  inherited  far  too  much  of  your  perversity  to  be 
fit  for  it.  But  Barbara  has  rights  as  well  as  Stephen. 
Why  should  not  Adolphus  succeed  to  the  inheritance? 
I  could  manage  the  town  for  him;  and  he  can  look  after 
the  cannons,  if  they  are  really  necessary. 

Undershaft.  I  should  ask  nothing  better  if  Adolphus 
were  a  foundling.  He  is  exactly  the  sort  of  new  blood 
that  is  wanted  in  English  business.  But  hes  not  a 
foundling;  and  theres  an  end  of  it. 

Cusixs  {diplomatic all tj) .  Xot  quite.  (They  all  turn 
and  stare  at  him.  He  comes  from  the  platform  past  the 
shed  to  Undershaft.)  I  think —  Mind!  I  am  not  com- 
mitting myself  in  any  way  as  to  my  future  course — but 
I  think  the  foundling  difficulty  can  be  got  over. 

Undershaft.     What  do  you  mean? 

CusiNS.  Well,  I  have  something  to  say  which  is  in 
the  nature  of  a  confession. 

Sarah.  "j 

Lady  Britomart.  I  c^^f^ggj^^; 

Barbara.  I 

Stephen.  J 

Lomax.     Oh  I  say! 

CusiNs.     Yes,  a  confession.     Listen,  all.     Until  I  met 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  291 

Barbara  I  thought  myself  in  the  main  an  honorable, 
truthful  man,  because  I  wanted  the  apj)roval  of  my 
conscience  more  than  I  wanted  anything  else.  But  the 
moment  I  saw  Barbara,  I  wanted  her  far  more  than  the 
approval  of  my  conscience. 

Lady  Britomart.     Adolphus! 

CusiNs.  It  is  true.  You  accused  me  yourself.  Lady 
Brit,  of  joining  the  Army  to  worship  Barbara;  and  so 
I  did.  She  bought  my  soul  like  a  flower  at  a  street  cor- 
ner; but  she  bought  it  for  herself. 

Undershaft.     ^^^lat!     Not  for  Dionysos  or  another? 

CusiNs.  Dionysos  and  all  the  others  are  in  herself. 
I  adored  what  was  divine  in  her,  and  was  therefore  a 
true  worshipijer.  But  I  M-as  romantic  about  her  too.  I 
thought  she  was  a  woman  of  the  people,  and  that  a 
marriage  with  a  professor  of  Greek  would  be  far  beyond 
the  wildest  social  ambitions  of  her  rank. 

Lady  Britomart.     Adolphus ! ! 

LoMAx.     Oh  I  say!!! 

CusiNS.     When  I  learnt  the  horrible  truth — 

Lady  Britomart.  What  do  you  mean  by  the  horrible 
truth,  pray.'' 

CusiNS.  That  she  was  enormously  rich;  that  her 
grandfather  was  an  earl;  that  her  father  was  the  Prince 
of  Darkness — 

Undershaft.     Chut ! 

CusiNS.  — and  that  I  was  only  an  adventurer  trying 
to  catch  a  rich  wife,  then  I  stooped  to  deceive  her  about 
my  birth. 

Barbara,     Dolly! 

Lady  Britomart.  Your  birth!  Now  Adolphus,  dont 
dare  to  make  up  a  wicked  story  for  the  sake  of  these 
wretched  cannons.  Remember:  I  have  seen  photographs 
of  your  parents ;  and  the  Agent  General  for  South  West- 
ern Australia  knows  them  personally  and  has  assured 
me  that  they  are  most  respectable  married  people. 

CusiNS.     So  they  are  in  Australia;  but  here  they  are 


292  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

outcasts.  Their  marriage  is  legal  in  Australia,  but  not 
in  England.  My  mother  is  my  father's  deceased  wife's 
sister;  and  in  this  island  I  am  consequently  a  foundling. 
(Sensation.)  Is  the  subterfuge  good  enough,  Machia- 
velli.? 

Undershaft  (thoughtfully).  Biddy:  this  may  be  a 
way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

Lady  Britomart.  Stuff!  A  man  cant  make  cannons 
any  the  better  for  being  his  own  cousin  instead  of  his 
proper  self  (she  sits  down  in  the  deck  chair  with  a 
bounce  that  expresses  her  downright  contempt  for  their 
casuistry). 

Undershaft  (to  Cusins).  You  are  an  educated  man. 
That  is  against  the  tradition. 

Cusins.  Once  in  ten  thousand  times  it  happens  that 
the  schoolboy  is  a  born  master  of  what  they  try  to  teach 
him.  Greek  has  not  destroyed  my  mind:  it  has  nour- 
ished it.  Besides,  I  did  not  learn  it  at  an  English  public 
school. 

Undershaft.  Hm!  Well,  I  cannot  afford  to  be  too 
particular :  you  have  cornered  the  foundling  market.  Let 
it  pass.     You  are  eligible,  Euripides :  you  are  eligible. 

Barbara  (coming  from  the  platform  and  interposing 
between  Cusins  and  Undershaft).  Dolly:  yesterday 
morning,  when  Stephen  told  us  all  about  the  tradition, 
you  became  very  silent;  and  you  have  been  strange  and 
excited  ever  since.  Were  you  thinking  of  your  birth 
then? 

Cusins.  When  the  finger  of  Destiny  suddenly  points 
at  a  man  in  the  middle  of  his  breakfast,  it  makes  him 
thoughtful.  (Barbara  turns  away  sadly  and  stands  near 
her  mother,  listening  perturbedly-.) 

Undershaft.  Aha !  You  have  had  your  eye  on  the 
business,  my  young  friend,  have  you.'' 

Cusins.  Take  care!  There  is  an  abyss  of  moral 
horror  between  me  and  your  accursed  aerial  battle- 
ships. 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  293 

Undershaft.  Never  mind  the  abyss  for  the  present. 
Let  us  settle  the  practical  details  and  leave  your  final 
decision  open.  You  know  that  you  will  have  to  change 
your  name.     Do  you  object  to  that? 

CusiNs.  Would  any  man  named  Adolphus — any  man 
called  Dolly! — object  to  be  called  something  else? 

Undershaft.  Good.  Now,  as  to  money!  I  propose 
to  treat  you  handsomely  from  the  beginning.  You  shall 
start  at  a  thousand  a  year. 

CusiNs  (with  sudden  heat,  his  spectacles  twinkling 
with  mischief).  A  thousand!  You  dare  oifer  a  miser- 
able thousand  to  the  son-in-law  of  a  millionaire !  No, 
by  Heavens,  Machiavelli !  you  shall  not  cheat  m  e.  You 
cannot  do  without  me;  and  I  can  do  without  you.  I 
must  have  two  thousand  five  hundred  a  year  for  two 
years.  At  the  end  of  that  time^  if  I  am  a  failure,  I  go. 
But  if  I  am  a  success,  and  stay  on,  you  must  give  me 
the  other  five  thousand. 

Undershaft.     What  other  five  thousand? 

CusiNs.  To  make  the  two  years  up  to  five  thousand  a 
year.  The  two  thousand  five  hundred  is  only  half  pay 
in  case  I  should  turn  out  a  failure.  The  third  year  I 
must  have  ten  per  cent  on  the  profits. 

Undershaft  (taken  aback).  Ten  per  cent!  ^Vhy, 
man,  do  you  know  what  my  profits  are? 

CusiNs.  Enormous,  I  hope:  otherwise  I  shall  require 
twentyfive  per  cent. 

Undershaft.  But,  Mr.  Cusins,  this  is  a  serious  mat- 
ter of  business.  You  are  not  bringing  any  capital  into 
the  concern. 

CusiNS,  WTiat!  no  capital!  Is  my  mastery  of  Greek 
no  capital?  Is  my  access  to  the  subtlest  thought,  the 
loftiest  poetry  yet  attained  by  humanity,  no  capital? 
My  character !  my  intellect !  my  life !  my  career !  what 
Barbara  calls  my  soul!  are  these  no  capital?  Say  an- 
other word;  and  I  double  my  salary. 

Undershaft.     Be  reasonable — 


294.  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

CusiNs  (peremptorily).  Mr.  Undershaft:  you  have 
my  t'erms.     Take  them  or  leave  them. 

Undershaft  (recovering  himself).  Very  well.  I 
note  your  terms ;  and  I  offer  you  half. 

CusiNs  (disgusted).     Half! 

Undershaft   (firmly).     Half. 

CusiNs.  You  call  yourself  a  gentleman ;  and  you  offer 
me  half!! 

Undershaft.  I  do  not  call  myself  a  gentleman;  but 
I  offer  you  half. 

CusiNs.  This  to  your  future  partner !  your  successor  ! 
your  son-in-law ! 

Barbara.  You  are  selling  your  own  soul,  Dolly,  not 
mine.     Leave  me  out  of  the  bargain,  please. 

Undershaft.  Come!  I  will  go  a  step  further  for 
Barbara's  sake.  I  will  give  you  three  fifths;  but  that 
is  my  last  word. 

CusiNs.     Done ! 

LoMAX.  Done  in  the  eye.  Why,  I  only  get  eight  hun- 
dred, you  know. 

CusiNs.  By  the  way,  Mac,  I  am  a  classical  scholar, 
not  an  arithmetical  one.  Is  three  fifths  more  than  half 
or  less? 

Undershaft.     More,  of  course. 

CusiNs.  I  would  have  taken  two  hundred  and  fifty. 
How  you  can  succeed  in  business  when  you  are  willing 
to  pay  all  that  money  to  a  University  don  who  is  ob- 
viously not  worth  a  junior  clerk's  wages! — well!  What 
will  Lazarus  say? 

Undershaft.  Lazarus  is  a  gentle  romantic  Jew  who 
cares  for  nothing  but  string  quartets  and  stalls  at  fash- 
ionable theatres.  He  will  get  the  credit  of  your  rapacity 
in  money  matters,  as  he  has  hitherto  had  the  credit  of 
mine.  You  are  a  shark  of  the  first  order,  Euripides. 
So  much  the  better  for  the  firm ! 

Barbara.  Is  the  bargain  closed,  Dolly?  Does  your 
soul  belong  to  him  now? 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  295 

CusiNs.  No:  the  price  is  settled:  that  is  all.  The  real 
tug  of  war  is  still  to  come.  What  about  the  moral 
question  ? 

Lady  Britomart.  There  is  no  moral  question  in  the 
matter  at  all,  Adolphus.  You  must  simply  sell  cannons 
and  weapons  to  people  whose  cause  is  right  and  just,  and 
refuse  them  to  foreigners  and  criminals. 

Undersuaft  (determinedly).  No :  none  of  that.  You 
must  keep  the  true  faith  of  an  Armorer,  or  you  dont 
come  in  here. 

CusiNs.  What  on  earth  is  the  true  faith  of  an  Ar- 
morer .'' 

Undershaft.  To  give  arms  to  all  men  who  offer  an 
honest  price  for  them,  without  respect  of  persons  or 
principles:  to  aristocrat  and  republican,  to  Nihilist  and 
Tsar,  to  Capitalist  and  Socialist,  to  Protestant  and 
Catholic,  to  burglar  and  policeman,  to  black  man  white 
man  and  yellow  man,  to  all  sorts  and  conditions,  all 
nationalities,  all  faiths,  all  follies,  all  causes  and  all 
crimes.  The  first  Undershaft  wrote  up  in  his  shop  if 
God  gave  the  hand,  let  not  Man  withhold  the 
SWORD.  The  second  wrote  up  all  have  the  right  to 
fight:  none  have  the  right  to  judge.  The  third 
wrote  up  TO  ^Ian  the  weapon:  to  Heaven  the  vic- 
tory. The  fourth  had  no  literary  turn ;  so  he  did  not 
write  up  anything;  but-  be  sold  cannons  to  Napoleon 
under  the  nose  of  George  the  Third.  The  fifth  wrote  up 
peace  shall  not  prevail  save  with  a  sword  in  her 
hand.  The  sixth,  my  master,  was  the  best  of  all.  He 
wrote  up  nothing  is  ever  done  in  this  world  until 

MEN    ARE    prepared   TO    KILL    ONE    ANOTHER    IF    IT    IS    NOT 

DONE.     After  that,  there  was  nothing  left  for  the  scventli 
to  say.     So  he  wrote  up,  simply,  unashamed. 

CusiNs.  My  good  Macliiavelli,  I  shall  certainly  write 
something  up  on  the  wall;  only,  as  I  shall  write  it  in 
Greek,  you  wont  be  able  to  read  it.  But  as  to  your 
Armorer's  faith,  if  I  take  my  neck  out  of  the  noose  of 


296  Major  Barbara  Act  in 

-my  own  morality  I  am  not  going  to  put  it  into  the  noose 
of  yours.  I  shall  sell  cannons  to  whom  I  please  and 
refuse  them  to  whom  I  please.     So  there ! 

Undershaft.  From  the  moment  when  you  become 
Andrew  Undershaft,  you  will  never  do  as  you  please 
again.     Dont  come  here  lusting  for  power,  young  man. 

CusiNs.  If  power  were  my  aim  I  should  not  come 
here  for  it.     You  have  no  power. 

Undershaft.     None  of  my  own,  certainly. 

CusiNs.  I  have  more  power  than  you,  more  will.  You 
do  not  drive  this  place:  it  drives  you.  And  what  drives 
the  place.'' 

Undershaft  (enigmatically).  A  will  of  which  I  am 
a  part. 

Barbara  (startled).  Father!  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  saying;  or  are  you  laying  a  snare  for  my  soul? 

CusiNs.  Dont  listen  to  his  metaphysics,  Barbara. 
The  place  is  driven  by  the  most  rascally  part  of  society, 
the  money  hunters,  the  pleasure  hunters,  the  military 
promotion  himters;  and  he  is  their  slave. 

Undershaft.  Not  necessarily.  Remember  the  Ar- 
morer's Faith.  I  will  take  an  order  from  a  good  man 
as  cheerfully  as  from  a  bad  one.  If  you  good  people 
prefer  preaching  and  shirking  to  buying  my  weapons 
and  fighting  the  rascals,  dont  blame  me.  I  can  make 
cannons:  I  cannot  make  courage  and  conviction.  Bah! 
You  tire  me,  Euripides,  with  your  morality  monger ing. 
Ask  Barbara :  s  h  e  understands.  (He  suddenly  takes 
Barbara's  hands,  and  looks  powerfully  into  her  eyes.) 
Tell  him,  my  love,  what  power  really  means. 

Barbara  (hypnotized).  Before  I  joined  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  I  was  in  my  own  power;  and  the  consequence 
was  that  I  never  knew  what  to  do  with  myself.  When 
I  joined  it,  I  had  not  time  enough  for  all  the  things  I 
had  to  do. 

Undershaft  (approvingly).  Just  so.  And  why  was 
that,  do  you  suppose? 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  297 

Barbara.  Yesterday  I  should  have  said,  because  I 
was  in  the  power  of  God.  {She  resumes  her  self-pos- 
session, withdrarving  her  hands  from  his  with  a  power 
equal  to  his  own.)  But  you  came  and  shewed  me  that 
I  was  in  the  power  of  Bodger  and  Undershaft.  Today 
I  feel — oh!  how  can  I  put  into  words.''  Sarah:  do  you 
remember  the  earthquake  at  Cannes,  when  we  were  little 
children? — how  little  the  surprise  of  the  first  shock  mat- 
tered compared  to  the  dread  and  horror  of  waiting  for 
the  second.''  That  is  how  I  feel  in  this  place  today.  I 
stood  on  the  rock  I  thought  eternal;  and  without  a  word 
of  warning  it  reeled  and  crumbled  under  me.  I  was 
safe  with  an  infinite  wisdom  watching  me,  an  army 
marching  to  Salvation  with  me;  and  in  a  moment,  at  a 
stroke  of  your  pen  in  a  cheque  book,  I  stood  alone;  and 
the  heavens  were  empty.  That  was  the  first  shock  of 
the  earthquake:  I  am  waiting  for  the  second. 

Undershaft.  Come,  come,  my  daughter !  dont  make 
too  much  of  your  little  tinpot  tragedy.  What  do  we  do 
here  when  we  spend  years  of  work  and  thought  and 
thousands  of  pounds  of  solid  cash  on  a  new  gun  or  an 
aerial  battleship  that  turns  out  j  ust  a  hairsbreadth  wrong 
after  all.''  Scrap  it.  Scrap  it  without  wasting  another 
hour  or  another  pound  on  it.  Well,  you  have  made  for 
yourself  something  that  you  call  a  morality  or  a  religion 
or  what  not.  It  doesnt  fit  the  facts.  Well,  scrap  it. 
Scrap  it  and  get  one  that  does  fit.  That  is  what  is  wrong 
with  the  world  at  present.  It  scraps  its  obsolete  steam 
engines  and  dynamos;  but  it  wont  scrap  its  old  preju- 
dices and  its  old  moralities  and  its  old  religions  and  its 
old  political  constitutions.  Wliats  the  result?  In  ma- 
chinery it  does  very  well ;  but  in  morals  and  religion  and 
politics  it  is  working  at  a  loss  that  brings  it  nearer 
bankruptcy  every  year.  Dont  persist  in  that  folly.  If 
your  old  religion  broke  down  yesterday,  get  a  newer  and 
a  better  one  for  tomorrow. 

Barbara.     Oh  how  gladly  I  would  take  a  better  one 


298  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

to  my  soul!  But  you  offer  me  a  worse  one.  {Turning 
on  him  with  sudden  vehemence.)  Justify  yourself:  shew 
me  some  light  through  the  darkness  of  this  dreadful 
place,  with  its  beautifully  clean  workshops,  and  respect- 
able workmen,  and  model  homes. 

Undershaft.  Cleanliness  and  respectability  do  not 
need  justification,  Barbara:  they  justify  themselves.  I 
see  no  darkness  here,  no  dreadfulness.  In  your  Salva- 
tion shelter  I  saw  poverty,  misery,  cold  and  hvmger. 
You  gave  them  bread  and  treacle  and  dreams  of  heaven. 
I  give  from  thirty  shillings  a  week  to  twelve  thousand  a 
year.  They  find  their  own  dreams;  but  I  look  after  the 
drainage. 

Barbara.     And  their  souls? 

Undershaft.    I  save  their  souls  just  as  I  saved  yours. 

Barbara  (revolted).  You  saved  my  soul!  What  do 
you  mean.'' 

Undershaft.  I  fed  you  and  clothed  you  and  housed 
you.  I  took  care  that  you  should  have  money  enouglf  to 
live  handsomely — more  than  enough;  so  that  you  could 
be  wasteful,  careless,  generous.  That  saved  your  soul 
from  the  seven  deadly  sins. 

Barbara  (bewildered).     The  seven  deadly  sins! 

Undershaft.  Yes,  the  deadly  seven.  (Counting  on 
his  fingers.)  Food,  clothing,  firing,  rent,  taxes,  respecta- 
bility and  children.  Nothing  can  lift  those  seven  mill- 
stones from  Man's  neck  but  money;  and  the  spirit  cannot 
soar  until  the  millstones  are  lifted.  I  lifted  them  from 
your  spirit.  I  enabled  Barbara  to  become  Major  Bar- 
bara ;  and  I  saved  her  from  the  crime  of  poverty, 

CusiNS.     Do  you  call  poverty  a  crime? 

Undershaft.  The  worst  of  crimes.  All ,  the  other 
crimes  are  virtues  beside  it:  all  the  other  dishonors  are 
chivalry  itself  by  comparison.  Poverty  blights  whole 
cities;  spreads  horrible  pestilences;  strikes  dead  the  very 
souls  of  all  who  come  within  sight,  sound  or  smell  of  it. 
What  you  call  crime  is  nothing :  a  murder  here  and  a 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  299 

theft  there,  a  blow  now  and  a  curse  then:  what  do  they 
matter?  they  are  only  the  accidents  and  illnesses  of  life: 
there  are  not  fifty  genuine  professional  criminals  in  Lon- 
don. But  there  are  millions  of  poor  people,  abject 
people,  dirty  people,  ill  fed,  ill  clothed  people.  They 
poison  us  morally  and  physically :  they  kill  the  happiness 
of  society:  they  force  us  to  do  away  with  our  own  liber- 
ties and  to  organize  unnatural  cruelties  for  fear  they 
should  rise  against  us  and  drag  us  down  into  their  abyss. 
Only  fools  fear  crime:  we  all  fear  poverty.  Pah!  (turii- 
ing  on  Barbara)  you  talk  of  your  half-saved  ruffian  in 
West  Ham:  you  accuse  me  of  dragging  his  soul  back  to 
perdition.  "Well,  bring  him  to  me  here;  and  I  will  drag 
his  soul  back  again  to  salvation  for  you.  Nojt,  by  words 
and  dreams ;  but  by  thirtyeight  shillings  a  week,  a  sound 
house  in  a  handsome  street,  and  a  permanent  job.  In 
three  weeks  he  will  have  a  fancy  waistcoat;  in  three 
months  a  tall  hat  and  a^chapel  sitting;  before  the  end 
of  the  year  he  will  shake  hands  with  a  duchess  at  a 
Primrose  League  meeting,  and  join  the  Conservative 
Party. 

Barbara.     And  will  he  be  the  better  for  that? 

Undershaft.  You  know  he  will.  Dont  be  ^a  hypo- 
crite, Barbara.  He  will  be  better  fed,  better  housed, 
better  clothed,  better  behaved;  and  his  children  will  be 
pounds  heavier  and  bigger..  That  will  be  better  than  an 
American  cloth  mattress  in  a  shelter,  chopping  firewood, 
eating  bread  and  treacle,  and  being  forced  to  kneel  down 
from  time  to  time  to  thank  heaven  for  it:  knee  drill,  I 
think  you  call  it.  It  is  cheap  work  converting  starving 
men  with  a  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a  slice  of  bread  in 
the  other.  I  will  undertake  to  convert  West  Ham  to 
Mahometanism  on  the  same  terms.  Try  your  hand  on 
m  V  men :  their  souls  are  hungry  because  their  bodies  are 
full. 

Barbara.     And  leave  the  east  end  to  starve? 

Undershaft  (his  energetic  tone  dropping  into  one  of 


300  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

bitter  and  brooding  remembrance).  /  was  an  east  ender.  I 
moralized  and  starved  until  one  day  I  swore  that  I  would 
be  a  full-fed  free  man  at  all  costs — that  nothing  should 
stop  me  except  a  bullet^  neither  reason  nor  morals  nor 
the  lives  of  other  men.  I  said  "  Thou  shalt  starve  ere 
I  starve  " ;  and  with  that  word  I  became  free  and  great. 
I  was  a  dangerous  man  imtil  I  had  my  will:  now  I  am 
a  useful^  beneficent,  kindly  person.  That  is  the  history 
of  most  self-made  millionaires,  I  fancy.  When  it  is 
the  history  of  every  Englishman  we  shall  have  an  Eng- 
land worth  living  in. 

Lady  Britomart.  Stop  making  speeches,  Andrew. 
This  is  not  the  place  for  them. 

Undershaft  (punctured).  My  dear:  I  have  no  other 
means  of  conveying  my  ideas. 

Lady  Britomart.  Your  ideas  are  nonsense.  You  got 
on  because  you  were  selfish  and  unscrupulous. 

Undershaft.  Not  at  all.  I  had  the  strongest  scruples 
about  poverty  and  starvation.  Your  moralists  are  quite 
imscrupulous  about  both:  they  make  virtues  of  them.  I 
had  rather  be  a  thief  than  a  pauj^er.  I  had  rather  be  a 
murderer  than  a  slave.  I  dont  want  to  be  either;  but  if 
you  force  the  alternative  on  me,  then,  by  Heaven,  I'll 
choose  the  braver  and  more  moral  one,  I  hate  poverty 
and  slavery  worse  than  any  other  crimes  whatsoever. 
And  let  me  tell  you  this.  Poverty  and  slavery  have  stood 
up  for  centuries  to  your  sermons  and  leading  articles: 
they  will  not  stand  up  to  my  machine  guns.  Dont  preach 
at  them:  dont  reason  with  them.     Kill  them. 

Barbara.  Killing.  Is  that  your  remedy  for  every- 
thing } 

Undershaft.  It  is  the  final  test  of  conviction,  the 
only  lever  strong  enough  to  overturn  a  social  system,  the 
only  way  of  saying  Must.  Let  six  hundred  and  seventy 
fools  loose  in  the  street;  and  three  policemen  can  scatter 
them.  But  huddle  them  together  in  a  certain  house  in 
Westminster ;  and  let  them  go  through  certain  ceremonies 


Act  m  Major  Barbara  301 

and  call  themselves  certain  names  until  at  last  they  get 
the  courage  to  kill;  and  your  six  hundred  and  seventy 
fools  become  a  government.  Your  pious  mob  fills  up 
ballot  papers  and  imagines  it  is  governing  its  masters; 
but  the  ballot  paper  that  really  governs  is  the  paper  that 
has  a  bullet  wrapped  up  in  it. 

CusiNs.  That  is  perhaps  why,  like  most  intelligent 
people,  I  never  vote. 

Undershaft.  Vote !  Bah !  When  you  vote,  you  only 
change  the  names  of  the  cabinet.  When  you  shoot,  you 
pull  down  governments,  inaugurate  new  epochs,  abolish 
old  orders  and  set  up  new.  Is  that  historically  true,  Mr. 
Learned  Man,  or  is  it  not? 

CusiNS.  It  is  historically  true.  I  loathe  having  to 
admit  it.  I  repudiate  your  sentiments.  I  abhor  your 
nature.  I  defy  you  in  every  possible  way.  Still,  it  is 
true.     But  it  ought  not  to  be  true^ 

Undershaft.  Ought,  ought,  ought,  ought,  ought! 
Are  you  going  to  spend  your  life  saying  ought,  like  the 
rest  of  our  moralists?  Turn  your  oughts  into  shalls, 
man.  Come  and  make  explosives  with  me.  Whatever 
can  blow  men  up  can  blow  society  up.  The  history  of 
the  world  is  the  history  of  those  who  had  courage  enough 
to  embrace  this  truth.  Have  you  the  courage  to  embrace 
it,  Barbara? 

Lady  Britomart.  Barbara,  I  positively  forbid  you 
to  listen  to  your  father's  abominable  wickedness.  And 
you,  Adolphus,  ought  to  know  better  than  to  go  about 
saying  that  wrong  things  are  true.  What  does  it  matter 
whether  they  are  true  if  they  are  wrong? 

Undershaft.  What  does  it  matter  whether  they  are 
wrong  if  they  are  true? 

Lady  Britomart  (rising).  Children:  come  home  in- 
stantly. Andrew:  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  I  allowed  you  to 
call  on  us.     You  are  wickeder  than  ever.     Come  at  once. 

Barbara  (shaking  her  head).  It's  no  use  running 
away  from  wicked  people,  mamma. 


302  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

Lady  Britomart.  It  is  e%'^ery  use.  It  shews  your 
disapprobation  of  them. 

Barbara.     It  does  not  save  them. 

Lady  Britomart.  I  can  see  that  you  are  going  to 
disobey  me.  Sarah:  are  you  coming  home  or  are  you 
not.^ 

Sarah.  I  daresay  it's  very  wicked  of  papa  to  make 
cannons;  but  I  dont  think  I  shall  cut  him  on  that  ac- 
count. 

LoMAx  (pouring  oil  on  the  troubled  waters).  The 
fact  is,  you  know,  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  tosh  about 
this  notion  of  wickedness.  It  doesnt  work.  You  must 
look  at  facts.  Not  that  I  would  say  a  word  in  favor  of 
anything  wrong;  but  then,  you  see,  all  sorts  of  chaps 
are  always  doing  all  sorts  of  things;  and  we  have  to 
fit  them  in  somehow,  dont  you  know.  What  I  mean  is 
that  you  cant  go  cutting  everybody;  and  thats  about 
what  it  comes  to.  (Their  rapt  attention  to  his  eloquence 
makes  him  nervous.)     Perhaps  I  dont  make  myself  clear. 

Lady  Britomart.  You  are  lucidity  itself,  Charles. 
Because  Andrew  is  successful  and  has  plenty  of  money 
to  give  to  Sarah,  you  will  flatter  him  and  encourage  him 
in  his  wickedness. 

LoMAX  (unruffled).  Well,  where  the  carcase  is,  there 
will  the  eagles  be  gathered,  dont  you  know.  (To  Under- 
shaft.)     Eh.?     What.? 

Undershaft.  Precisely.  By  the  way,  m  a  y  I  call 
you  Charles? 

LoMAx.     Delighted.     Cholly  is  the  usual  ticket. 

Undershaft  (to  Lady  Britomart).     Biddy — 

Lady  Britomart  (violently).  Dont  dare  call  me 
Biddy.  Charles  Lomax:  you  are  a  fool.  Adolphus 
Cusins :  you  are  a  Jesuit.  Stephen :  you  are  a  prig.  Bar- 
bara: you  are  a  lunatic.  Andrew:  you  are  a  vulgar 
tradesman.  Now  you  all  know  my  opinion ;  and  m  y 
conscience  is  clear,  at  all  events  (she  sits  down  again 
with  a  vehemence  that  almost  wrecks  the  chair). 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  303 

Undershaft.  My  dear:  you  are  the  incarnation  of 
morality.  (She  snorts.)  Your  conscience  is  clear  and 
your  duty  done  when  j'ou  have  called  everybody  names. 
Come,  Euripides!  it  is  getting  late;  and  we  all  want  to 
get  home.     Make  up  your  mind. 

CusiNs.     Understand  this,  you  old  demon — 

Lady  Britomart.     Adolphus ! 

Undershaft.  Let  him  alone,  Biddy.  Proceed,  Eu- 
ripides. 

CusiNS.  You  have  me  in  a  horrible  dilemma.  I  want 
Barbara. 

Undershaft.  Like  all  young  men,  you  greatly  exag- 
gerate the  difference  between  one  young  woman  and 
another. 

Barbara.     Quite  true,  Dolly. 

CusiNs.     I  also  want  to  avoid  being  a  rascal. 

Undershaft  (rvith  biting  contempt).  You  lust  for 
personal  righteousness,  for  self-approval,  for  what  you 
call  a  good  conscience,  for  what  Barbara  calls  salvation, 
for  what  I  call  patronizing  people  who  are  not  so  lucky 
as  yourself. 

Cusins.  I  do  not:  all  the  poet  in  me  recoils  from 
being  a  good  man.  But  there  are  things  in  me  that  I 
must  reckon  with:  pity — 

Undershaft.     Pity!     The  scavenger  of  misery. 

Cusins.     Well,  love. 

Undershaft.  I  know.  You  love  the  needy  and  the 
outcast :  you  love  the  oppressed  races,  the  negro,  the  Ind- 
ian ryot,  the  Pole,  the  Irishman.  Do  you  love  the 
Japanese .''  Do  you  love  the  Germans .''  Do  you  love  the 
English .'' 

Cusins.  No.  Every  true  Englishman  detests  the 
English,  We  are  the  wickedest  nation  on  earth ;  and  our 
success  is  a  moral  horror. 

Undershaft.  That  is  what  comes  of  your  gospel  of 
love,  is  it.'' 

Cusins.     May  I  not  love  even  my  father-in-law.'* 


304  Major  Barbara  Act  m 

Undershaft.  Who  wants  your  love,  man?  By  what 
right  do  you  take  the  liberty  of  offering  it  to  me?  I 
will  have  your  due  heed  and  respect,  or  I  will  kill  you. 
But  your  love.     Damn  your  impertinence! 

Cusixs  (grinning).  I  may  not  be  able  to  control  my 
affections,  Mac. 

Undershaft.  You  are  fencing,  Euripides.  You  are 
weakening:  your  grip  is  slipping.  Come.'  try  your  last 
weapon.  Pity  and  love  have  broken  in  your  hand:  for- 
giveness is  still  left. 

CusiNS.  Xo:  forgiveness  is  a  beggar's  refuge.  I  am 
with  you  there:  we  must  pay  our  debts. 

Undershaft.  Well  said.  Come !  you  will  suit  me. 
Remember  the  words  of  Plato. 

CusiNs  {starting) .  Plato !  You  dare  quote  Plato  to 
me! 

Undershaft.  Plato  says,  my  friend,  that  society 
cannot  be  saved  until  either  the  Professors  of  Greek 
take  to  making  gunpowder,  or  else  the  makers  of  gun- 
powder become  Professors  of  Greek. 

CusiNs.     Oh,  tempter,  cunning  tempter ! 

Undershaft.     Come !  choose,  man,  choose. 

CusiNS.  But  perhaps  Barbara  will  not  marry  me  if  I 
make  the  wrong  choice. 

Barbara.     Perhaps  not. 

CusiNs    (desperately   perplexed).     You    hear! 

Barbara.     Father:  do  j'ou  love  nobody? 

Undershaft.     I  love  my  best  friend. 

Lady  Britomart.     And  who  is  that,  pray? 

Undershaft.  My  bravest  enemy.  That  is  the  man 
who  keeps  me  up  to  the  mark. 

CrsiNs.  You  know,  the  creature  is  really  a  sort  of 
poet  in  his  way.     Suppose  he  is  a  great  man,  after  all ! 

Undershaft.  Suppose  you  stop  talking  and  make  up 
your  mind,  my  yovmg  friend. 

CusiNS.  But  you  are  driving  me  against  my  nature.  I 
hate  war. 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  305 

Undersiiaft.  Hatred  is  the  coward's  revenge  for  be- 
ing intimidated.  Dare  you  make  war  on  war?  Here 
are  the  means:  my  friend  Mr.  Lomax  is  sitting  on  them. 

LoMAX  {springing  up).  Oh  I  say!  You  dont  mean 
that  this  thing  is  loaded,  do  you?  My  ownest:  come 
off  it. 

Sarah  (sitting  placidly  on  the  shell).  If  I  am  to  be 
blown  up,  the  more  thoroughly  it  is  done  the  better. 
Dont  fuss,  Cholly. 

Lomax  (to  Undershaft,  strongly  remonstrant).  Your 
own  daughter,  you  know. 

Undershaft.  So  I  see.  (To  Cusins.)  Well,  my 
friend,  may  we  expect  you  here  at  six  tomorrow  morn- 
ing? 

CusiNs  (firmly).  Not  on  any  account.  I  will  see  the 
whole  establishment  blown  up  with  its  own  dynamite 
before  I  will  get  up  at  five.  My  hours  are  healthy, 
rational  hours:  eleven  to  five. 

Undershaft.  Come  when  you  please:  before  a  week 
you  will  come  at  six  and  stay  until  I  turn  you  out  for 
the  sake  of  your  health.  (Calling.)  Bilton !  (He  turns 
to  Lady  Britomart,  rvho  rises.)  My  dear:  let  us  leave 
these  two  young  people  to  themselves  for  a  moment. 
(Bilton  comes  from  the  shed.)  I  am  going  to  take  you 
through  the  gun  cotton  shed. 

Bilton  (barring  the  way)'  You  cant  take  anything 
explosive  in  here,  sir. 

Lady  Britomart.  Wliat  do  you  mean?  Are  you 
alluding  to  me? 

Bilton  (unmoved).  No,  maam.  Mr.  Undershaft  has 
the  other  gentleman's  matches  in  his  pocket. 

Lady  Britomart  (abruptly).  Oh!  I  beg  your  par- 
don.    (She  goes  into  the  shed.) 

Undershaft.  Quite  right,  Bilton,  quite  right:  here 
you  are.  (He  gives  Bilton  the  box  of  matches.)  Come, 
Stephen.  Come,  Charles.  Bring  Sarah.  (He  passes 
into  the  shed.) 


306  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

Bilton  opens  the  box  and  deliberately  drops  the 
matches  into  the  fire-bucket. 

LoMAX.  Oh  I  say !  (Bilton  stolidly  hands  him  the 
empty  box.)  Infernal  nonsense!  Pure  scientific  igno- 
rance!    (He  goes  in.) 

Sarah.     Am  I  all  right,  Bilton? 

Bilton.  Youll  have  to  put  on  list  slippers,  miss: 
thats  all.     Weve  got  em  inside.     (She  goes  in.) 

Stephen  (very  seriously  to  Cusins).  Dolly,  old  fel- 
low, think.  Think  before  you  decide.  Do  you  feel  that 
you  are  a  sufficiently  practical  man.''  It  is  a  huge  vmder- 
taking,  an  enormous  responsibility.  All  this  mass  of 
business  will  be  Greek  to  you. 

CusiNs.  Oh,  I  think  it  will  be  much  less  difficult  than 
Greek. 

Stephen.  Well,  I  just  want  to  say  this  before  I  leave 
you  to  yourselves.  Dont  let  anything  I  have  said  about 
right  and  wrong  prejudice  you  against  this  great  chance 
in  life.  I  have  satisfied  myself  that  the  business  is  one 
of  the  highest  character  and  a  credit  to  our  country. 
(Emotionally.)  I  am  very  proud  of  my  father.  I — 
(Unable  to  proceed,  he  presses  Cusins'  hand  and  goes 
hastily  into  the  shed,  followed  by  Bilton.) 

Barbara  and  Cusins,  left  alone  together,  look  at  one 
another  silently. 

Cusins.     Barbara :  I  am  going  to  accept  this  offer. 

Barbara.     I  thought  you  would. 

Cusins.  You  understand,  dont  you,  that  I  had  to 
decide  without  consulting  you.  If  I  had  thrown  the 
burden  of  the  choice  on  you,  you  would  sooner  or  later 
have  despised  me  for  it. 

Barbara.  Yes:  I  did  not  want  you  to  sell  your  soul 
for  me  any  more  than  for  this  inheritance. 

Cusins.  It  is  not  the  sale  of  my  soul  that  troubles 
me:  I  have  sold  it  too  often  to  care  about  that.  I  have 
sold  it  for  a  professorship.  I  have  sold  it  for  an  income. 
I  have  sold  it  to  escape  being  imprisoned  for  refusing 


Act  m  Major  Barbara  307 

to  pay  taxes  for  hangmen's  ropes  and  unjust  wars  and 
things  that  I  abhor.  What  is  all  human  conduct  but 
the  daily  and  hourly  sale  of  our  souls  for  trifles  ?  What 
I  am  now  selling  it  for  is  neither  money  nor  position 
nor  comfort,  but  for  reality  and  for  power. 

Barbara.  You  know  that  you  will  have  no  power, 
and  that  he  has  none. 

CusiNS.  I  know.  It  is  not  for  myself  alone.  I  want 
to  make  power  for  the  world. 

Barbara.  I  want  to  make  power  for  the  world  too; 
but  it  must  be  spiritual  power. 

CusiNs.  I  think  all  power  is  spiritual:  these  cannons 
will  not  go  off  by  themselves.  I  have  tried  to  make 
spiritual  power  by  teaching  Greek.  But  the  world  can 
never  be  really  touched  by  a  dead  language  and  a  dead 
civilization.  The  people  must  have  power;  and  the 
people  cannot  have  Greek.  Now  the  power  that  is  made 
here  can  be  wielded  by  all  men. 

Barbara.  Power  to  burn  women's  houses  down  and 
kill  their  sons  and  tear  their  husbands  to  pieces. 

CusiNS.  You  cannot  have  power  for  good  without  hav- 
ing power  for  evil  too.  Even  mother's  milk  nourishes 
murderers  as  well  as  heroes.  This  power  which  only 
tears  men's  bodies  to  pieces  has  never  been  so  horribly 
abused  as  the  intellectual  power,  the  imaginative  power, 
the  poetic,  religious  power  than  can  enslave  men's  souls. 
As  a  teacher  of  Greek  I  gave  the  intellectual  man  weap- 
ons against  the  common  man.  I  now  want  to  give  the 
common  man  weapons  against  the  intellectual  man.  I 
love  the  common  people.  I  want  to  arm  them  against 
the  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the  priest,  the  literary  man,  the 
professor,  the  artist,  and  the  politician,  who,  once  in 
authority,  are  the  most  dangerous,  disastrous,  and  tyran- 
nical of  all  the  fools,  rascals,  and  impostors.  I  want  a 
democratic  power  strong  enough  to  force  the  intellectual 
oligarchy  to  use  its  genius  for  the  general  good  pr  else 
perish, 


308  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

Barbara.  Is  there  no  higher  power  than  that  (point- 
ing to  the  shell)  ? 

CusiNS.  Yes:  but  that  power  can  destroy  the  higher 
powers  just  as  a  tiger  can  destroy  a  man:  therefore  man 
must  master  that  power  first.  I  admitted  this  when  the 
Turks  and  Greeks  were  last  at  war.  Mj  best  pupil  went 
out  to  fight  for  Hellas.  My  parting  gift  to  him  was 
not  a  copy  of  Plato's  Republic,  but  a  revolver  and  a 
hundred  Undershaft  cartridges.  The  blood  of  every 
Turk  he  shot — if  he  shot  any — is  on  my  head  as  well  as 
on  Undershaft's.  That  act  committed  me  to  this  place 
for  ever.  Your  father's  challenge  has  beaten  me.  Dare 
I  make  war  on  war  ?  I  dare.  I  must.  I  will.  And  now, 
is  it  all  over  between  us? 

Barbara  (touched  by  his  evident  dread  of  her  an- 
swer).    Silly  baby  Dolly!     How  could  it  be? 

CusiNs  (overjoyed).  Then  ypu — you — you —  Oh  for 
my  drum!     (He  flourishes  imaginary  drumsticks.) 

Barbara  (angered  by  his  levity).  Take  care,  Dolly, 
take  care.  Oh,  if  only  I  could  get  away  from  you  and 
from  father  and  from  it  all!  if  I  could  have  the  wings 
of  a  dove  and  fly  away  to  heaven ! 

CusiNS.     And  leave  m  e ! 

Barbara.  Yes,  you,  and  all  the  other  naughty  mis- 
chievous children  of  men.  But  I  cant.  I  was  happy 
in  the  Salvation  Army  for  a  moment.  I  escaped  from  \ 
the  world  into  a  paradise  of  enthusiasm  and  prayer  and 
soul  saving ;  but  the  moment  our  money  ran  ^hort,  it  all  j 
came  back  to  Bodger:  it  was  he  who  saved  our  people:! 
he,  and  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  my  papa.  Undershaft 
and  Bodger:  their  hands  stretch  everywhere:  when  we 
feed  a  starving  fellow  creature,  it  is  with  their  bread, 
because  there  is  no  other  bread;  when  we  tend  the  sick, 
it  is  in  the  hospitals  they  endow;  if  we  turn  from  the 
churches  they  build,  we  must  kneel  on  the  stones  of 
the  streets  they  pave.  As  long  as  that  lasts,  there 
is    no    getting    away    from    them.      Turning    our    backs 


Act  m  Major  Barbara  309 

on  Bodger  and  Undershaft  is  turning  our  backs  on 
life. 

CusiNS.  I  thought  you  were  determined  to  turn  your 
back  on  the  wicked  side  of  life. 

Barbara.  There  is  no  wicked  side:  life  is  all  one. 
And  I  never  wanted  to  shirk  my  share  in  whatever  evil 
must  be  endured,  whether  it  be  sin  or  suffering.  I  wish 
I  could  cure  you  of  middle-class  ideas,  Dolly. 

CusiNs  (gasping).  Middle  cl — !  A  snub!  A  social 
snub  to  m  e  !  from  the  daughter  of  a  f oimdling ! 

Barbara.  That  is  why  I  have  no  class,  Dolly:  I  come 
straight  out  of  the  heart  of  the  whole  people.  If  I  were 
middle-class  I  should  turn  my  back  on  my  father's  busi- 
ness; and  we  should  both  live  in  an  artistic  drawing- 
room,  with  you  reading  the  reviews  in  one  corner,  and 
I  in  the  other  at  the  piano,  playing  Schumann :  both  very 
superior  persons,  and  neither  of  us  a  bit  of  use.  Sooner 
than  that,  I  would  sweep  out  the  guncotton  shed,  or  be 
one  of  Bodger's  barmaids.  Do  you  know  what  would 
have  happened  if  you  had  refused  papa's  offer.'' 

CusiNS.     I  wonder ! 

Barbara.  I  should  have  given  you  up  and  married 
the  man  who  accepted  it.  After  all,  my  dear  old  mother 
has  more  sense  than  any  of  you.  I  felt  like  her  when  I 
saw  this  place — felt  that  I  must  have  it — that  never, 
never,  never  could  I  let  it  go ;  only  she  thought  it  was 
the  houses  and  the  kitchen  ranges  and  the  linen  and 
china,  when  it  was  really  all  the  human  souls  to  be 
saved:  not  weak  souls  in  starved  bodies,  crying  with 
gratitude  for  a  scrap  of  bread  and  treacle,  but  fullfed, 
quarrelsome,  snobbish,  uppish  creatures,  all  standing  on 
their  little  rights  and  dignities,  and  thinking  that  my 
father  ought  to  be  greatly  obliged  to  them  for  making 
so  much  money  for  him — and  so  he  ought.  That  is 
where  salvation  is  really  wanted.  My  father  shall  never 
throw  it  in  my  teeth  again  that  my  converts  were  bribed 
with  bread.     (She  is  transfigured.)     I  have  got  rid  of 


310  Major  Barbara  Act  III 

the  bribe  of  bread.  I  have  got  rid  of  the  bribe  of 
heaven.  Let  God's  work  be  done  for  its  own  sake:  the 
work  he  had  to  create  us  to  do  because  it  cannot  be  done 
except  by  living  men  and  women.  When  I  die,  let  him 
be  in  my  debt,  not  I  in  his;  and  let  me  forgive  him  as 
becomes  a  woman  of  my  rank. 

CusiNs.  Then  the  way  of  life  lies  through  the  factory 
of  death? 

Barbara.  Yes,  through  the  raising  of  hell  to  heaven 
and  of  man  to  God,  through  the  unveiling  of  an  eternal 
light  in  the  Valley  of  The  Shadow.  (Seizing  him  with 
both  hands.)  Oh,  did  you  think  my  courage  would  never 
come  back.?  did  you  believe  that  I  was  a  deserter?  that 
I,  who  have  stood  in  the  streets,  and  taken  my  people 
to  my  heart,  and  talked  of  the  holiest  and  greatest  things 
with  them,  could  ever  turn  back  and  chatter  foolishly 
to  fashionable  people  about  nothing  in  a  drawingroom? 
Never,  never,  never,  never:  Major  Barbara  will  die  with 
the  colors.  Oh !  and  I  have  my  dear  little  Dolly  boy 
still;  and  he  has  found  me  my  place  and  my  work. 
Glory  Hallelujah!      (She  kisses  him.) 

CusiNs.  My  dearest:  consider  my  delicate  health.  I 
cannot  stand  as  much  happiness  as  you  can. 

Barbara.  Yes:  it  is  not  easy  work  being  in  love  with 
me,  is  it?  But  it's  good  for  you.  (She  runs  to  the  shed, 
and  calls,  childlike)  Mamma !  Mamma !  (Bilton  comes 
out  of  the  shed,  followed  by  Undershaft.)  I  want 
Mamma. 

Undershaft.  She  is  taking  off  her  list  slippers, 
dear.  (He  passes  on  to  Cusins.)  Well?  What  does 
she  say? 

CusiNs.     She  has  gone  right  up  into  the  skies. 

Lady  Britomart  (coming  from  the  shed  and  stopping 
on  the  steps,  obstructing  Sarah,  who  follows  with  Lo- 
max.  Barbara  clutches  like  a  baby  at  her  mother's  skirt.) 
Barbara:  when  will  you  learn  to  be  independent  and  to 
act  and  think  for  yourself?     I  know  as  well  as  possibly 


Act  III  Major  Barbara  311 

what  that  cry  of  "  Mamma,  Mamma,"  means.  Always 
running  to  me! 

Sarah  (touching  Lady  Britomart's  ribs  with  her  fin- 
ger tips  and  imitating  a  bicycle  horn).     Pip!  pip! 

Lady  Britomart  (highly  indignant).  How  dare  you 
say  Pip  !  pip  !  to  me,  Sarah  ?  You  are  both  very  naughty 
children.     What  do  you  want,  Barbara? 

Barbara.  I  want  a  house  in  the  village  to  live  in 
with  Dolly.  {Dragging  at  the  skirt.)  Come  and  tell 
me  which  one  to  take. 

Undershaft  (to  Cusins).  Six  o'clock  tomorrow 
morning,  my  young  friend. 


;AY 


ETURN       CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

OM^       202  Main  Library 

DAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  AAAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  D<  < 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE   AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

']^\^ 

[«5lCt2, 

o 

'HV  12  2001 

j 

1 

)RM  NO  DD  6,  40in   10 '  77      UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKJ  /I 

BERKELEY,  CA  94720         !/| 

'^■mmj^>,,H-:,..:S^ 

W?m^^^^:i[^m.mmtmaaxi 

»»^'                     1 

■^*ft 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


